“She stopped I’m pretty sure. But she talked to this guy. When she got back to the table I asked her what that was about, and she said, ‘Nothing. Just saying hello.’”
“Why think of it now?” Drexel drank some of the coffee that was going cold.
“I don’t know. You play this stuff over and over and then something clicks. There was something in Brittany’s voice. It was a tad weird. Like it wasn’t saying hello and something more. I don’t know.” She tapped her lip with her right index finger. “I’m making too much of it probably. I didn’t think much of it then.”
“What do you remember of this man? Was he there when you got there? What was he wearing?”
“I don’t think he was there when we got there, but I wasn’t paying that much attention. He was wearing a coat. Brown or black. And work boots. I remember those because he walked out a while before us and they clomped really loud on the floor.” She looked down at the floor again.
“That’s fine. He was sitting at the bar?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. That’s good. How much earlier did he leave than when Brittany left?”
She swept back her bang. “Half hour.” She shook her head. “Forty-five minutes.” She shrugged.
“That’s helpful. Thanks. Anything else that you’re rethinking or remembering?”
Kayla shook her head.
“What was Brittany studying?”
“She was pre-law. All of us friends were except me.”
“What were you studying?”
“I’m a physics major. I knew Brittany from high school. We’ve been friends for years. She introduced me to Carrie and them.”
“What did you think of them?”
“They were great. I enjoyed hanging out with them.”
Drexel could hear a tinge of hesitation between the sentences, and the “great” had a preemptory feel. “But?”
“Well. They were all pre-law. I’m physics. Sometimes they got lost in their own worlds. Talking case law or that professor or that court case. When they were talking like that, you might as well not be there.”
Drexel smiled and chuckled. “Sounds like a bunch of cops at a party.”
Kayla nodded. “Yeah. It was natural. But I couldn’t help feeling jealous sometimes. Brittany and I grew up together. We had a history no one else could match. And there we were, drifting in different directions bit by bit.”
“Was Brittany dating or seeing anyone?”
“No. At least she didn’t say so.”
“Would she’ve kept that to herself?”
“Oh yeah. At least for a while. She was private about those things.”
“So she could have started seeing someone and hadn’t told anyone yet?”
“Yeah, that’s possible.”
“But you had no reason to suspect that she was?”
“No. None at all.”
Drexel bought her another cup of coffee, and she filled him in more about Brittany’s life. She had most recently become interested in environmental law. Kayla said Brittany was passionate about the environment, sometimes to the point of absurdity in the eyes of her friends. She carried a portable cup she insisted on having restaurants or others fill if they were not using reusable glass or plastic cups. She had pressured her parents into buying an all-electric car, which her friends took as evidence of her lawyerly skills. She was a die-hard Bears fan, reserving Sunday afternoons during the season for watching her favorite team, dressed in her Jay Cutler number six jersey. Kayla opened Facebook on her iPad and shared some photos with Drexel. Unlike the more staid, portrait pictures at her parents, these photographs of Brittany showed her in action—youthful, passionate, and perhaps rambunctious. A photo of her with a red plastic cup and her arms draped around Kayla and another woman. A photo of her sticking her tongue out.
Kayla assisted him in contacting Brittany’s friends Isaiah and Carrie by providing their phone numbers. He spoke to each on the phone, and they gave them the same general story about O’Neal’s as Kayla. They were unable to reach Janay, so he left a message.
Isaiah remembered—though vaguely, he said—that Brittany spoke to someone at the bar. He said the man spoke to Brittany first, but he was positive he had arrived after they were seated and on their first pitcher. Isaiah thought the man had taken off his coat. But he could not be sure. The man wore work boots or some sort of combat-like books. Carrie did not recall the man or episode.
Drexel thanked Kayla and returned to the station to find Daniela at her desk, the glow of the computer light illuminating her face. He leaned against the desk.
She said, “Any luck?”
He told her of his interviews and that he still needed to talk to Brittany’s instructors. Both agreed that the unidentified man was an extreme long shot at best, but something they needed to follow up on. As they reviewed what they had in the case, the mail person, Donnie Macintosh, stopped by Drexel’s desk. He looked up and smiled. Macintosh had retired from Chicago PD in the nineties and now delivered the mail as a part-time job as he lived out his years on his pension. He pulled from his cart a manila envelope. Drexel held out his finger. “Hold on there Donnie. Put that on the desk.”
Donnie put the envelope down. Drexel knew it was from Brittany’s killer. No return address. Do not bend. Statue of Liberty Forever stamps. No postmark.
“Shit.” Drexel ran his hand through his hair. To Daniela, he said, “Get the CSIs here now.”
Chapter 7
The photos in this envelope were of the same type as Brittany’s but of a different woman. Older. Drexel guessed in her mid-thirties or early forties, and Daniela agreed. She wore black slacks, a white blouse, and a gray sweater. She too was photographed in what the detective had concluded was the moment—or just after—when the victim realized, understood, her last moments alive were right then and there. Another photograph as well of her hunched over. Were these posed versus candid—the term turning his stomach? Like Brittany, the latest victim was dismembered and lay on her back in a design. She was surrounded by a triangle, whose single point was at her feet and its base at her head. What looked like a glass of water sat near her feet. Two other items were at the other points. The one on her left Drexel guessed was an ID card of some sort. The one on her right was shiny like a mirror.
On the back of the photograph was an address in Wrigleyville.
Drexel put his hands on the table on each side of the letter that was included and read it.
In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.
I, Simon, asked the Father, saying, “Have patience with me and I will pay thee all.”
Enclosed find my second message to the world.
Simon
He flopped down in the chair and rubbed the right side of his face. “Jesus, he’s been preparing for this for a while.”
He drove Daniela north to the address, trailing a CSI van, two patrol cars, and an armored truck carrying six men in dark green pants and shirts and dark gray armored vests and helmets. As they turned left off of Clark Street, the commercial district bled into a residential area of Chicago two-flats—red brick or tan stone multifamily, two-story houses with steps leading up to a small porch on the left side and bay windows on the right.
The SWAT truck led the way. It rolled up onto the sidewalk and came to a halt outside the address. The back doors opened and the SWAT officers rushed toward the house, splitting into two teams. All of them holding their assault rifles up snugly against their shoulders. The first team ascended the stairs to the steps, peering into the windows and halting before the front door. The basement windows were covered by a dark curtain. The second team disappeared alongside the building. A few moments passed. The third officer in line on the porch pressed his hand to his helmet and then pressed his arm against the back of the officer in front of him, who did the
same to the lead officer, who battered the door open. Within a few minutes, the shouts of “Clear” died down, and the CSIs, Drexel, and Daniela stepped in.
The two-flat was being remodeled. The floor was stripped to the wood, and new drywall hung with un-sanded drywall mud lining the joints and covering the nail heads. The kitchen lacked cabinets let alone appliances. Even the toilets had been removed and towels jammed into the siphons. Eric, the SWAT lieutenant, told him the victim was in the basement. Drexel thanked him and asked the SWAT team to exit the house. He then asked the CSIs to see if they could pull prints from the doors leading into the house. With a gloved hand, he used the railing to walk down into the basement, which was also being renovated. Between the joists, he could see the exposed pipes and power cords. She lay there just as in the photos sitting back on his desk in plastic. The killer had positioned her close to the front of the house. Drexel pulled back the plastic—a lawn and leaf bag—covering the window and secured to the frame with blue painter’s tape. He could see the front yard and SWAT truck.
The ME was on her way, so the CSIs started by photographing the scene. The victim’s clothes were folded and stacked in the corner toward the back of the basement. Working with Daniela, he lifted the black wedge pumps from the top of the stack. Faux suede. Size seven in faded gold on the inside. Soles worn down from use. He placed them in the paper bag she held open. She folded the top down, placed red tape with Evidence stamped on it across the top edge. She signed and dated across the seal. The socks, black with small, white embroidered stars on the foot and leg were folded once and below the shoes. They went into a bag. Then her black bra. Then her gray knitted sweater. Not heavy. A white blouse with a thick collar. Her black slacks and a thin black, shiny belt. Each in their own bags. He noted no personal items. No jewelry. No purse. No identification. No panties.
Drexel walked back over to the victim and stared at her for a while grim-faced. He squatted and looked at the items placed beside her body. What he thought was a mirror in the photograph was a mirror. It looked like it had been stripped from a compact. What had appeared to be an ID card was also correct, except this was a blank one from Loyola University, whose main campus was on the far northside. The jar of water seemed to hold some brain matter as well, though he would let Noelle tell him definitively.
He retreated from the basement. Closing the basement door behind him, he told Daniela to check every room in the house for anything. Then he walked out to the backyard, sat on the unstained deck, and bummed a cigarette from one of the patrol officers guarding the back. This was turning into a nightmare far more quickly than he had anticipated. He had expected another killing. But he had not anticipated the next day. They had not even gotten through the initial interviews to catch up on what happened to Brittany Day. He knew, sitting there, more would be coming in the days and weeks ahead. They had almost no evidence they could use to stop the carnage. The only good news was the media had not yet latched onto the story—they would though. Just a matter of time. Until then, the killer would not be able to make adjustments based on reporting and that could be a good or a bad thing. Either the killer keeps doing the same thing, and the repetition makes him more predictable or the killer adjusts his methods, increasing the likelihood of mistakes or altering his routine, complicating the hunt for the killer. Drexel recalled from his FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit training a few years ago the distinction between a killer’s modus operandi, which can and does change over time, and signature, which does not. He pulled out his phone, found the Chicago FBI’s Field Office number, and dialed.
“Special Agent Giulia Vivaldi.” The voice was a bit high-pitched.
“This is Detective Sergeant Drexel Pierce with Chicago PD Central.”
“How can I help you, detective?”
After telling her Victor gave him her number, Drexel gave her a thirty-second synopsis, and she said she would be right over. He heard Daniela’s footsteps on the smooth concrete of the porch. She sat next to him and shook her head. “I know why you smoke at scenes.”
He offered her what was left of his cigarette. She shook her head. He stabbed it against his shoe bottom and placed the butt in a pant pocket. “Called the FBI. I think we may need their help.”
She nodded.
Drexel stood up and rocked his head sideways. “Let’s check the garage, the lot, and the neighborhood for anything.”
As Daniela started checking along the fence line, he organized a canvass of the neighborhood. He decided to knock on the two-flat immediately to the right. The two were so close together only a narrow sidewalk separated them. No answer, so he left his card. Two houses down, a woman dressed in distressed jeans and a navy blue dress shirt with a large collar and white dots of thread in a polka-dot fashion smiled at him from behind a screen door. “Hello?”
Drexel showed his badge to her. “We’re conducting an investigation in the house two doors down.” He thumbed in its direction.
She stepped out onto the porch, holding the storm door open. “Christine Harcourt.” She smiled again. “Oh, that’s the Templeton’s house.”
“Templeton?”
“Well, that’s what my husband and I call it. The house was in their family for three generations. Or something close to that. They sold it,” she frowned and looked up, “last year…two years ago? But we still call it the Templeton’s house.”
“Do you know who owns it now?”
She let the storm door close and shook her head. “No. I know they’re doing renovations on it. Vans and contractors going in and out for months. I assumed it was finished actually.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t seen them in a month or so. They even took the sign out of the yard. No one moved in?”
“No. It’s not finished inside. What was the company mentioned on the sign?”
“Asking me to remember something pretty old, eh? I’ve slept since then.” She smiled and tapped her thumb against her index finger. “I think it was something like Parnell and Sons or Purcell. Something like that. Started with a P.”
“Seen anything strange the past couple of days in the neighborhood?”
“Strange?” She laughed. “That’ll depend. I’ve seen some strange stuff with all the disoriented Cubs fans. Whether they’re drunk or from out of town and lost. So the bar’s pretty high. But no, I get what you mean. Nothing I can think of.”
He gave her one of his cards and asked her to call him if she thought of anything. Or if her husband did.
He left the canvass to the other patrol officers, though he doubted he would get assistance in identifying the renovation contractor. As he walked back to the house, he heard the patrol officer at the front door say something about jurisdiction. At the door, the officer was talking to a short woman with bobbed dark brown hair wearing a dark gray pantsuit with a single button in the midsection. She wore a white shirt with light gray pinstripes and black buttons. The shirt’s pointed collar lay over the coat’s. The opening at the neck revealed a silver necklace with what looked like a simple flower. On closer inspection it was a lotus flower. Drexel said, “Agent Vivaldi?”
She looked at him with russet-colored eyes. “Pierce?”
He nodded once and said to the officer. “I called her. Didn’t have time to get her in the book.” The book that tracked and logged all people at a crime scene with their names and times. FBI or Cook County Sheriff deputies have to be pre-entered in the book or the primary detective on the scene has to let them in.
The agent looked at Drexel and then stepped aside. She walked through the door, stopped, and looked back at him. “Show me.”
Drexel led her to the basement, where Noelle was finishing up. The ME stood with her hands on her hips, watching two assistants prepare the body for transport.
“Doc,” said Drexel.
Noelle looked up and an eyebrow dropped as she saw the FBI agent.
“This is Special Agent Giulia Vivaldi. I called her.”
“Hmmm.” Noelle watched Vivaldi as she circled the body, taking in the carnage. The ME continued, “So same thing as the last one. Killed. Frozen. Cut up and then arranged here.”
“What’s in the jar?” asked Drexel.
“Brain matter. A thin slice—not thin enough for viewing in a microscope or anything. So whoever did this didn’t cut it like a trained person would. And it’s not the victim’s. Her skull was intact.” She paused. “Well, I should say it’s probably not the victim’s. I’ll confirm it though with an autopsy.”
“Any ideas on time of death or how long she’s been here?”
“Like the other, being frozen really messes up any timing, so I can’t say. But I think she was placed here in the past eight to twelve hours. Rough guess though.”
Drexel nodded. “Sure. Thanks. Give us a few before you take the vic away.” Noelle patted him on the shoulder and walked out with her assistants, the stairs creaking as they climbed to the first floor.
Vivaldi put her hands on her waist and stared. Drexel knelt down. They both were attempting the same thing, trying to put themselves into the mind of the killer, endeavoring to understand what motivated, what purpose the killer had. She asked, “Do you know what this symbol means?”
Drexel shook his head without saying a word.
They stood for a few minutes more. She said, “You got something in the mail, right?”
“Yeah, I did.” She surprised him by knowing that information.
“I’d like to see it.”
“Of course. We have it at the station. And we have the photos from the first victim.”
“This is number two?”
“It is. And I already know there’ll be more.”
She let a faint smile cross her face. “You at the temporary station by LaSalle on Congress?”
“Yep.”
She raised her wrist and looked at her teal FitBit. “I’ll see you there in about an hour.” She walked up the stairs. Her voice drifted down, “I don’t need to see anymore here.”
Kill Them All (Drexel Pierce Book 2) Page 6