Curious. Casting his mind back, Darc realized that he had not eaten since lunch yesterday, when Detective McGarren had left. And while Darc’s mental capacity at his weakest surpassed others’ at their finest, there was no reason not to be functioning at the highest level possible.
He took the cup from Keane, placed the straw in his mouth and took a long pull. The flood of fructose from the juice immediately jolted his mental functioning to a higher level, and the acidic wash of the orange was… pleasant.
“Oh, and here.” Keane handed the captain the other cup from the cardboard drink holder, a paper cup with a lid. “You look like the kind of guy who takes his coffee black.”
“Ah, yes. Yes, I do,” the captain replied, a strange look on his face. It was the look of a man who seemed to be making up his mind about something. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing, Cap. So… what’s up? You wanted to talk to me?”
“Hm. Right.” The captain took a pull at his coffee, then continued. “I have to ask… don’t they teach you in vice not to talk to the press in the middle of an investigation?” Captain Merle’s brow was furrowed, casting a shadow over his eyes.
“Yeah. Of course,” Keane answered, a confused look on his face.
“Then what was all that about?”
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about the investigation. I was talking about Downton Abbey.” The vice cop must have seen the look of non-comprehension on the captain’s face, so he continued. “You know, the British series? Masterpiece Theatre? Airs on PBS?”
“But I heard you,” the captain continued, his face turning a bit red. “You said something about ‘the case’.”
“Yeah. Bates. You know, from the show. It’s totally a weak case. Completely circumstantial. Man, I love me a good English drama. And I guess the reporter’s a fan too,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, apparently to catch another glimpse of the reporter. “‘Sides, you have to admit she’s smokin’ hot.”
“Well, steer clear of her from here on out, no matter how ‘hot’ she is. We need to keep a lid on things until you’ve finished up this case.”
“Sure thing,” Keane replied, then stopped. “Wait. What? What do you mean, ‘until you’ve finished up this case’?”
“You’re going to be working this case with Darc. I have a phone call to make to your superior officer, but I’m certain he’ll release you to me. This case is important enough, and we go way back.”
That, without doubt, was the most ridiculous idea Darc had ever heard in his life.
CHAPTER 3
Trey was… well, Trey was pissed. And flattered. But mostly pissed.
“You want me to work a homicide?” Trey asked, trying to keep his voice from going up an entire octave. When his voice got into the stratosphere like that, it had a tendency to crack, and he sounded like a kid going through puberty. Not exactly manly. “You know I’m not even a detective, right?”
“This is a temporary arrangement, just for this case. Let’s call it a trial run,” the captain replied. “Although, if it goes well, I may be requesting a permanent shift. Pending the result of your detective’s exam, that is.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve known me for like—what?—five minutes? All due respect, sir, but are you smoking something?” Trey couldn’t believe what was happening here. It was like he had stepped into some kind of alternate reality. Maybe he was getting punked.
He looked at the captain. No, there was no way that face was joking. Ever.
“Keane, you’re doing this. It’s either you or me, and it’s not going to be me. Detective Darcmel’s a certified genius.” The captain nodded in Darc’s direction. The bald man inclined his head, apparently taking the praise as nothing more than his due. “He’s also a pain in the ass. He’s had five partners in just the last year. No one can get along with him. Sorry, Darc, but it’s true.”
“There is no need to apologize, although I don’t understand the reference to buttocks. The level of irrational behavior amongst those professing to be detectives is abysmal.” Darc stopped for a moment, then continued. “Although your statement was not completely factual. I have had five partners, but it was over the course of exactly eleven months and five days.” Darc then turned on his heel and stalked over to where the M.E. was working on the body.
“And there it is in a nutshell.” The captain leaned in and spoke in a more quiet tone. “He’s got Asperger’s.”
“Ass who?” Trey had no idea what was going on here.
“Asperger’s Syndrome.” The captain sighed. “Google it, Keane. Look, there’s not a chance I’m going to end up watching over him. You’re on this case. Time to start working it.” He turned to walk toward the entrance.
“Wait. So I’m basically here to be his babysitter?” Trey called after him.
Captain Merle turned back and gave him a long look, a slight twinkle in his eye. “Pretty much, son.”
And then he was gone.
Well, it was official. Today officially sucked. And it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. Trey wasn’t normally even awake by now.
And, apparently, it was about to get even better. Darc stepped forward and gazed at what seemed to be Trey’s right eyebrow. It made Trey feel like he was about three feet tall. Trey didn’t like feeling three feet tall. He didn’t like feeling five feet seven inches tall, which was his actual height, so feeling even less than that was not okay. Darc’s tone managed to be as impersonal and nonspecific as his eye line.
“It will be important for the success of this case for you to stay out of my way as much as possible.”
“Um, yeah. No problem, dude. You heard the captain. I’m basically here to babysit you, not interfere with your mojo.” The thought of actually engaging on a homicide case was giving Trey hives. No need to get more caught up in this thing than he needed to be. Besides, the thought of dead bodies made him queasy.
“We need to go now.” Before he had even finished speaking, Darc was moving toward the exit. He spoke over his shoulder at Trey. “You will drive.”
“Where are we going?” Trey asked, but there was no response from the detective as he stepped out of the Laundromat and into the street, causing at least one car to slam on its brakes to keep from hitting him. Trey rushed out, holding his hands up in an apology to the irate driver who had failed to get Darc’s attention with his swearing. “Sorry, dude! Working a case!” Trey flashed his badge.
Okay. Apparently, babysitting included bodyguard and chauffeur services, as well. Whatever. Trey would take care of the brainiac until this case was over, then he’d hightail it back to vice, no matter what that crazy captain had to say about it.
He’d pick drug dealers and strippers over this any day of the week.
* * *
Darc had not said a word to Officer Keane since they got in the car. On the inside of Darc’s mind, the glowing paths of light were overlaid atop a map of Seattle, telling Darc where he needed to go. When the lines indicated they were to turn left, Darc pointed left and Keane dutifully turned the wheel.
The fact that Darc was not speaking had not kept Officer Keane from emitting a steady stream of words. Darc was beginning to believe that his temporary partner might have some sort of disorder. So far, the man had touched on baseball, bacon, the original Star Wars trilogy and his thoughts on plastic surgery. But now it seemed that Keane had turned his attention back to the case at hand.
“So… are you going to tell me where we’re going and what we’re doing there?”
“There should be no need to inform you of our destination,” Darc replied, breaking his silence. “A good detective would know without asking.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not a detective, am I?” For a man who was in the middle of driving, Officer Keane used his hands more than seemed prudent. “Besides, this is my first homicide. I don’t know what freaky stuff you guys do. Give me meth labs and sleazy C.I.s. They make sense. Serial killers don’t.”
The glowing lines of logi
c flashed red, violated by Keane’s statement. “That is not accurate,” Darc corrected the vice cop. “The consumption of mind-altering chemicals causes those involved in that industry to be highly volatile. In contrast, with serial killers, once their modus operandi is identified, much can be known about them with little to no contact.”
“Seriously?” Keane turned in his seat and looked directly at Darc. The vice cop appeared unconcerned with basic driving safety. “That doesn’t seem right. I mean, what do we know about Hairless Harry? He’s got a thing for trimmers and he’s like the only guy who understands Roman numbers. That’s not a ton to go off, dude.”
Darc could see no benefit from continuing this conversation. “I have no desire to explain profiling to an officer who works vice.”
“Oh, I know profiling. Last time I checked, we’re not supposed to do it. Racist, dude. Totally racist.” Trey looked over at Darc and grinned, apparently reacting to Darc’s scowl. “Kidding. Man, you’ve gotta lighten up.”
Pointing left down another street they needed to turn down, Darc refrained from commenting. As they made the turn onto the brick street, Darc could feel the texture of the road change underneath the wheels of the car. They were entering into Pioneer Square, an older area of Seattle that boasted beautiful architecture, creative personalities, and a colorful collection of homeless denizens.
As they pulled up to the address of the victim’s apartment complex, which the M.E. had found in the wallet in her purse, Keane stopped the car and locked the doors to the car before Darc could get out. The glowing lines were urging Darc up and out of the car, toward the old and shabby building in front of them, but it was clear that Keane had another idea.
“Okay, here’s the deal, dude. You don’t want me here. I get it.” The vice cop raised his hand to stop Darc before he could interrupt. “I’m not so sure I want to be here either, but I am, so I at least want to know what’s going on.”
“The likelihood that you could assist me in this investigation is minimal. I calculate the percentage as somewhere between five and seven percent.” They were wasting time here. The gleaming tracks of light in his mind beckoned to Darc, coaxing him out of the car.
“Yeah, I get that. But according to your captain, it’s either me or him, and I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be as easy for you to walk all over Merle.” Keane shrugged, his face complacent. “Your call, dude. You fill me in, or you deal with mister big-and-beefy-boss-dude.”
The logic strands swirled, assimilating the new data. It did not take long for a pattern to emerge. “Understood. The victim’s name is Abigail Lockwood. She lived here, in this apartment complex. Time of death was determined to be between 1:30 and 2:00 am. The M.E. found skin under her fingernails and is processing it for DNA. She showed all the other markers of Hairless Harry’s M.O.”
“And what’s the profile we’re looking for?” Officer Keane asked, surprising Darc. The glistening ciphers representing the vice cop’s chances of contributing to the case rose from between five and seven percent to between ten and twelve.
“Male, 25-30, intelligent, with a background in history, literature or languages. Someone detail oriented and well organized.”
Keane nodded his head. “Cool. Let’s go.” He unlocked the door to the car, and the two of them headed up to the apartment complex’s entrance. Darc noted the aging lettering of the sign outside that proclaimed there were units available for rent. It was not an upscale residence.
Glancing at the call box, Darc found the button for the manager and pushed, leaving his finger there for several long seconds. Moments later, a voice blared from the ancient speaker, distorted and cracking. “Yeah?”
“Seattle PD. We need to talk.”
* * *
Trey watched as the greasy-haired man with the bad comb-over jangled his way through the mess of keys he held clutched in his fist. The manager, Mike, had appeared forty to Trey when he’d first seen him, but looking closer, he was probably closer to his early thirties. The balding thing aged him.
“So… did you know Abigail?” Trey asked, hoping to glean some additional information about their victim. Or at least break the silence that had reigned since they had met the taciturn manager.
The man grunted, shaking his head. Apparently, Mike wasn’t much for chit-chat. He found the right key, turned it in the lock and pushed the door of the apartment open. Trey entered after Darc, looking over his shoulder at the manager, who was looking around the apartment, seemingly rapt. Weird.
Trey turned his attention to the apartment. It was somewhat sparse, with a couch and loveseat set that looked like it had seen some use surrounding a flat-screen television in the main living space. There were some posters plastered on the walls for what looked like local Seattle bands. Some blank spaces interspersed amongst them indicated places where several had been taken down.
The bedroom off to the side was about the same. A nice bedroom set that was at least five or six years old. A frilly coverlet that was starting to fray at the edges. The entire apartment spoke of someone who was not poor, but who was not swimming in money by any means. Trey opened up one of the dresser drawers.
“Darc. Take a look.”
As Darc moved to Trey’s side, Trey pulled out the photos he had found scattered in the drawer. There were pictures of groups of girls out drinking, at what looked like an office party, several dressed up for Halloween. But the ones that had grabbed Trey’s attention were of a blonde girl and a guy, where the guy had been scratched or marked out in every single one.
“An ex-boyfriend?” Trey asked.
“He was a jerk.” The voice jolted Trey, causing him to spin around to face the manager, who was looking over his shoulder at the photos. His eyes were distant, and his face was a mask of anger.
“Wait. I thought you said you didn’t know her.”
His eyes darted up to Trey’s, an expression of what looked like fear crossing over his features. “I didn’t. I don’t.” The manager backed away a step. “I would just see them talking in the halls sometimes. He wasn’t very… nice.”
“There are no male toiletries in the bathroom,” Darc said, joining in the conversation. “If he lived here before, he no longer does.”
“Moved out. Two or three months ago,” Mike growled, his tone accusatory.
“Any idea where he moved to?” Trey probed.
“No. Sometimes I see mail for him on the box downstairs. No forwarding address.”
Trey turned to Darc. “We could track down where he is.”
“There is no need. The probability that the boyfriend is involved is statistically negligible.” Darc had already turned to focus on a stack of mail on the kitchen table.
“Fine. I’ll keep checking through the bedroom.”
As Trey moved around to the side of the bed to get a look at what might be underneath, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. The manager, still standing next to the dresser, jerked his hand out of one of the drawers that had remained open from Trey’s search. A flash of something white that was quickly hidden.
“Hey!” Trey came upright in a heartbeat. “What have you got there?”
The manager blanched, his face slack. “N…nothing.”
“You just pulled something out of that drawer and put it in your pocket.”
“No… no, I…” the man stammered.
Trey sighed. “Look, dude. Are you going to show me what it was, or am I gonna have to pat you down? ‘Cause that won’t be fun for me or for you.”
Mike looked from side to side, looking like he wanted nothing more than a way out of the conversation. Finally, when Trey moved toward him, the manager backed up and put a hand into his pocket. It came out clutching a pair of white panties.
“Um, Darc?” Trey called out. “I think we might want to take this guy down to the station for a little talk.”
CHAPTER 4
Darc looked through the one-way window at the suspect. Michael Jensen, age 32, former Latin
teacher at Seattle Prep, a private Jesuit high school. He had been dismissed for “inappropriate behavior” with a student. His sheet contained three charges of peeping and one of public exposure. There had also been a charge of stalking that had been dropped.
He fit the profile perfectly.
Not only had the manager known the victim, but upon a search of his rooms, they had turned up photos of Abigail that she clearly hadn’t known the suspect had been taking. And all of the killings so far had taken place within a twenty minute walk of his apartment complex.
Something was troubling Darc, however. The lines of logic in his mind refused to come together completely. It was a near thing, but one of the strands was refusing to cooperate. Without the lock on those threads of reasoning, Darc could not be certain that they had the right person.
Opening the door into the interrogation room, Darc was surprised to find Officer Keane pushing in behind him. “I do not need you for this,” Darc intoned.
“Dude. Partner, remember?” Keane said as he plopped himself down across the table from Michael Jensen. The suspect lifted his head to look at the two lawmen now in the room with him, his demeanor both sullen and nervous. Or that could be boredom. So difficult to tell with gray emotion.
That was part of the issue here. Their killer was organized, intelligent, savvy. Michael Jensen seemed to be none of these things, but Darc could not be sure. The lines inside of Darc’s mind sparked and spat, snaking away from him as he tried to grapple them together.
“Michael Jensen,” Darc began, opening up the man’s file. “You were dismissed from Seattle Prep for unbecoming conduct. Would you like to tell me what happened?”
“Idiot nuns. They thought they were so superior.” The manager spat his words out. “Refused to even listen to what Megan had to say.”
Down & Dirty: A McCray Crime Collection Page 32