by Lori Gordon
Damn it, why did it have to be storming? She’d prayed someone would see her and recognize her, someone who could have called the police and get her the help she needed. Tears ran down her cheeks. That wasn’t going to happen. She was on her own.
Gathering her resolve, she struggled to get her bearings. Lake Shore Drive was straight ahead. All she had to do was make it that far. With any luck, she’d be able to flag down a passing motorist. And then she’d be free.
She wiped the rain from her eyes and sobbed in relief. The nightmare would be over soon. Using her last ounce of strength, she ran towards the drive, crying out in disbelief. The road was flooded. Lake Shore Drive was closed to traffic.
She collapsed to her knees, pounding the ground in anguish. Please God, don’t let this be happening. By now, he’d know she was missing. He’d be out looking for her, tracking her down like a runaway dog.
A bolt of lightning sliced through the air followed by an explosion of thunder. She pushed herself up from the ground, still winded from running. I have to keep going, she thought, frantic. Have to find somewhere safe.
A hand clamped around her ankle, dragging her backwards. She screamed, kicking out at her captor. He slapped her hard across the face, dazing her. Her back slammed into the ground. He was on top of her in an instant. Before she could resist, she felt the needle pierce her arm, saw him lower the sac over her head, dragging it down her chest, over her hips, stuffing her inside it. Her limbs refused to move. Eyes wide with terror, she knew had no chance of fighting him. Her body had gone numb.
Tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes. She was powerless. Again.
Just the way the monster liked it.
Chapter Three
The story made the news before Sam finished typing her report. That was the last thing she needed. She slammed her laptop shut and yanked the paper out of the typewriter feeling a jab of frustration. The storm managed to dump over five inches of rain on downtown Chicago in just under an hour, washing away all but a minuet chance of trace evidence at the scene. The exclusive shops on The Magnificent Mile closed hours before the attack, and the heat and rain contrived to pull double whammy on the city, keeping the night owls home for once.
The precinct was empty. She was pulling a double shift and missed dinner with her parents because half the squad was out with a case of food poisoning courtesy of Bill Hartman’s retirement party the night before. She’d planned to attend until…
Until Greer. And discovering the secrets he’d been keeping.
Just thinking about him made her blood boil. Sam sighed, swiped the heavy damp blonde hair from her eyes, and tapped her pen it on the old wooden desk. There was no denying it. Her life was turning into a red-hot mess.
She wasn’t going to think about that now. Personal issues had no place in the squad room. Sam shot a wistful glance at the empty desk across from hers wishing Alec was here. Right about now, they’d be bouncing ideas off each other inching one-step closer to solving a particularly ugly crime. She and Alec worked pretty damn well together despite getting off to a rocky start. Smiling at the memories of her early days on the force, she opened a drawer and pulled out a legal pad to jot down some notes.
No ID on the vic. Hell, no clothes on the victim. Fingerprints burned off. No fibers on the body and no idea where he’d come from. Michigan Ave wasn’t exactly residential, not in this part of town. They’d spent the better part of the night questioning employees of near-by hotels coming up empty each time. The shops and restaurants would have to wait until tomorrow, when they re-opened for business.
Her first major case flying solo and she had squat.
Unless she could find the mystery woman Harold Franklin remembered seeing their John Doe with— a “looker” with either strawberry blonde, red, or light brown hair. Yeah, Sam rolled her eyes; his description gave them a lot to go on.
She threw her pen across the desk and pushed back her chair. There was nothing more she could do here tonight. Between the heat related deaths and the rise in violent crimes every time a major heat wave hit the city it would be at least forty-eight hours before Mark Matsuda turned in the autopsy report. There was no point in sticking around. She gathered her things and ripped off the sheet of notes from the legal pad, freezing in place.
What if the victim had been attacked somewhere else, and the killer had driven to the corner of Chicago and Michigan, shoved John Doe out of the car, and left him to bleed out on the side of the road? There were cameras mounted on every traffic light in the area. With any luck, they may have gotten a picture of the vehicle. It was a long shot but worth checking out.
Most killers weren’t very smart. They’d formulate an elaborate plan to get away with murder and nine times out of ten; they tripped themselves up over the simplest of details. Feeling a rush of excitement, Sam popped a Hersey’s kiss in her mouth, grabbed her bag, and raced out the door.
This could be the break she needed.
She sucked on the candy, hoping those weren’t her famous last words.
Chapter Four
Saturday, July 24
It was too damn late. Sam rubbed the blur from her eyes, took one last swig of cold coffee, and left her car in the no parking zone. A crowd gathered outside the hotel. She ignored them, brushing past the swarm of reporters and thrill seekers. It was going to be another long night.
She rode the elevator in silence, tapping her foot in annoyance. What the hell was wrong with this city? How was it people kept discovering dead bodies in the middle of the night? Didn’t anybody sleep?
The stench hit her as soon as the elevator doors opened. At least she had her answer. It would be hard to doze off with the noxious odor of death permeating the hallway. Sam pulled a tube of Mentholatum out of her pocket, and dabbed some under her nose. It made her eyes water, played havoc with her sinuses, and didn’t do near enough to mask the stench.
A uniform stood guard outside the hotel room door. She flashed her badge and noticed the color drained from his face, leaving him a pasty shade of white. “Brace yourself, Detective,” he warned in a wobbly voice. “It’s a bad one.”
She looked him up and down. He had peach fuzz where a five o’clock shadow should have been. Sam dropped the purse strap from her shoulder and peered inside, searching for something. The young officer kept his gaze trained on the wall to avoid looking into the hotel suite. She felt a stab of sympathy. It wasn’t so long ago that she’d been in his shoes; she could tell by his gulping Adams apple that this was his first murder scene.
“Ah ha.” She smiled in triumph as her fingers closed around a Hersey’s kiss.
“Thank you, Officer… Murphy.” She peered at his nameplate. Pressing the chocolate in his hand, she winked. “It will make you feel better.”
He glanced down at the candy in confusion. “Ummm…Thank you?”
She waved. “You’re very welcome.”
Sam ducked beneath the crime scene tap and stepped over the threshold, coming to a dead stop. A prickle at the base of her spine warned that she’d landed in a trifecta of trouble.
“Oh. Good. Lord,” she breathed, damning Alec to hell for not being here with her. Sam reached for a pair of booties by rout, slipped them over her shoes, and snapped on a pair of gloves. There was a dead body inside, demanding her attention, but it was impossible to tear her gaze away from the view.
She raised her brows and maneuvered past the crime scene techs, cocking her head to the right. The suite had floor to ceiling windows; maybe, she estimated around ten feet high. And right outside those windows was the Wrigley Building bathed in subdued gold night-lights. She moved closer, reaching out to touch the glass in awe. The old world elegance and intricate detail of the famous Wrigley clock up close mesmerized her.
Like any Chicagoan worth her salt, she’d been to the 95th and the Signature room at the top of the Hancock Building, dined at The Top of The Rock and had even taken a turn at playing tourist by stargazing from the observatory at Willis T
ower, but this had a unique beauty all its own. The living area gave off stunning sensation of being suspended in the center of the city’s famous skyline.
Oh yeah, this was definitely how the other half lived. And died, she reminded herself, but what a beautiful setting for murder.
Which begged the question, why would anyone who could afford to piss away nine hundred bucks a night on a hotel room gamble their life on the slim odds of getting away with murder?
A series of lightning strikes streaked across the sky lending an eerie quality to the night. Sam backed away from the window, spooked by how near the lightening was. The vicious, steaming hot wet weather hovering over the Midwest was putting her in a direct path with the crazies. Random murder wasn’t typical in this quadrant of the city. This was where the rich and the fabulous lived, worked, and played yet she was two for two this weekend. What were the odds? She scratched her head and turned back to the scene, curiosity engaged.
The silence around her was telling. Though the suite was crowded with law enforcement types there was none of the usual banter or camaraderie while they worked. No morbid jokes flew through the air like electricity. To the outside world, that might seem twisted. For those on the inside, it was a way of dehumanizing the hellishness of violent death.
Her gaze swept the room. Outside of the clutter from the investigation, nothing looked disturbed or seemed out of place. No articles of clothing or personal items were visible, not even a drinking glass. It was quiet enough for her to hear the shutter of a camera from somewhere inside the suite as the photography unit took photos and video to document the scene. Photo’s they’d later paste on the murder board, looking for clues missed on the first go round.
Sam stepped around the maze of equipment scattered on the floor and addressed the nearest tech, a man she’d worked with dozens of times. “The body?”
He jerked his head to the right, refusing to look at her. “Bedroom.”
Sam raised a brow at his abrupt response. Something bad enough to set trained professionals on edge had gone down here tonight. She steeled herself and headed in the direction he pointed. Her allergies went into overdrive at the overpowering odor of ammonia drifting down the hallway. The killer knew what he was doing and had taken the time to clean up his mess. The muscles in her neck tensed when she reached the doorway. Men dominated the bedroom moving with stiff, jerky movements, their somber faces pale and terse.
Mark Matsuda bent over the body, features sour with disgust as he examined the victim. Not good, Sam thought, not good. Nothing fazed Matsuda. For him to show emotion at a scene was not only rare, it was a first. She lowered her eyes to the corpse, and sucked in a lungful of putrid air. She’d built a reputation for staying calm and composed on the job. This time it was going to be tough.
Sam slathered a second healthy dollop of Mentholatum under her nose and stepped forward for a closer look. At first glance, she couldn’t distinguish if the victim was male or female. The lower abdomen and genitals were pulverized beyond recognition. An involuntary shudder ran through her body. Talk about a hatchet job. She prayed most of the damage inflicted was post mortem.
Her blood ran cold as she met Matsuda’s eyes.
“Remind you of anyone?” he asked.
She nodded. The instant the scene registered, the similarities between the victim and last night’s Mag Mile John Doe screamed out at her. What were the odds the two murders were coincidental of each other?
Sam puffed out her cheeks and shoved her hands in her pockets. Focus on the here and now. Absorb the scene. Let it tell its story. Get inside the perps head. This was a rage killing, pure and simple. The gender of the vic didn’t matter. The method of killing did.
Mark Matsuda remained silent, letting her do her thing. Behind a wiseass exterior lurked a compassionate heart. She knew through firsthand experience, from the days before she joined the force. Back when she was on the other side, as a family member of a victim.
Lot of hate right here.” Her voice bounced off the walls in the silent room.
Matsuda nodded in acknowledgment. “My thought exactly.”
She’d seen some nasty things during her time on the force. None of them held a candle to the butchered lump of meat bound spread eagle on the bed.
The victim was male. His genitals loped off. It got worse. A dental gag held his mouth open, freezing his face in an expression of perpetual agony. His tongue had been severed, most likely to silence his screams. Raised welts across his torso and thighs indicated a severe beating. And then there were the knife wounds. At minimum, there were at least fifty cuts of varying degrees and lengths carved into the body.
It was little wonder the men were acting strangely. Last night, in the midst of the storm, the victim could have come from anywhere. The killing could have been the result of gang violence or the mob seeking retribution if the victim had his hand in the till or been caught screwing the wrong woman.
In this setting, the killing was more intimate. It was personal.
Sex killing screamed in her mind. Sam leaned in for a better look and covered her mouth, swallowing back the coffee she gulped before arriving.
She frowned. The sex aspect didn’t fit. Women didn’t typically kill this way, or with this kind of rage. She glanced up at Mark. “Talk to me.”
“Hasn’t been dead long, my best guess somewhere between three and six hours. You can see where the blood has accumulated in the buttocks and back. Rigor has started, and the body temperature has cooled.” He paused.
“And?”
The M.E. stood erect, snapping off his gloves. “You go first. I like hearing your first impressions.”
“Okay.” She nodded, walking the length of the bed from both sides. “For now, I’m going to discount a possible connection to last night’s victim and just focus on what’s in front of me. I can’t link them in my mind just yet; otherwise I might miss something important.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed, stepping back to let her observe.
Her brow knotted. “At first glance, it looks like a rage killing. A crime of passion.”
“Go on.”
“But that’s not the case at all.” She extended a gloved ginger, pointing out various wounds, “These here, made with a serrated blade could have come from the room service tray over there. These cuts on the other hand were made with a smooth edged blade, and aren’t deep, indicating a sharper smaller object, like a paring knife.” Her eyes narrowed. “The cuts to the tongue and genital area are clean. No sawing. Looks to have been done with a single hack. My best guess is some type of butcher knife.” She shrugged. Knives weren’t her field of expertise. “Which forces me to conclude this wasn’t a crime of passion. It was premeditated. The perp brought knifes to the scene with the intent of using them.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Just because different knives were used, you can’t necessarily assume premeditation.”
She stared at him. “Are you kidding me? You can’t be serious.”
“You’re overlooking the bondage aspect.” He gestured towards the body. “The vic is bound. He’s been whipped and gagged in an unusual manner.”
“Your point?”
“These S & M sicko’s engage in all types of play. Needles, knife’s, lots of sick shit gets them off.”
“This sure as hell wasn’t consensual.” Sam pressed her lips together and shook her head. She didn’t buy his theory.
Mark arched a brow. “Until you’ve seen the accidents that have ended up on my slab —all I’m saying is that you can’t rush to judgment. What started out one way could have ended in this. There’s a clear and present S & M aspect here you’d be naïve to ignore.”
She kicked the idea around, following his line of thought. “So the knives could have been in the killer’s toy bag all along. And the victim said or did something that caused the killer to fly into a rage…”
“Exactly.” His nostrils flared as he gazed at the corpse. Mark folded his arms across his chest. She got the
impression he was daring her to challenge his theory.
Doubt crept up on her. She shoved her hands in her dress pockets, surveying the scene. “I still don’t buy it. The UNSUB cleaned the body with ammonia. He was prepared. He came here with the intent to kill.”
“He? I thought we were going with the assumption that this was a sex crime?”
She stared at victims face, squinting when she noticed a strange mark. “You don’t think a woman did this? It doesn’t fit the standard M.O. for a woman, even an enraged one.”
“You think this is a gay killing?”
“Don’t you?”
Ignoring his dubious expression, she studied the dead man’s forehead. “Look at this. Does this look like a number to you?”
Matsuda leaned over the body. The victim’s hair was matted with blood and partially covered the forehead. “Could be. Or it could be a burn mark.”
Sam zeroed in on the wounds. “I think there’s some marking in the pelvic area too. Between the lower right hip and the groin.”
He came over to her side of the bed, put on a fresh pair of gloves, and swabbed the area. “Sonofabitch. How’d I miss that? Jesus. You know what that is? The guy was branded.”
Once Matsuda cleaned the wound, the words leapt out like a neon sign.
Till death.
Dread curdled in Sam’s stomach. The killer was sending a message.
“What do you think it means?” Mark held a flashlight over the brand.
She glanced up at Matsuda. “Till death? Come on, that’s an easy one. Till death do us part. Like a marriage vow.” She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill. “Damn it. I have bad feeling about this.”
Jay Lombardo stopped what he was doing and stepped to the foot of the bed. He let out a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a hissy fit.”
Her face turned grim. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”