The Poisonous Ten

by Tyler Compton

  “And the fish in his hands?” Fairmont asked.

  “So far as I can tell it has nothing to do with the murder.” Tanaka said. “It was an afterthought. A decoration. A—”

  “I’m not so sure,” Parks interjected.

  “What are you thinking?” Moore asked.

  “I don’t think it’s his calling card,” Parks said. “He has one of those already, correct?”

  Parks looked to Moore, who nodded.

  “We found these.” Moore held up three more photos, close-ups of the symbol. “It was painted on the underside of the seat that Bollinger was found siting in. We’re having the substance tested, but due to the color and appearance of the substance … we believe it’s Allison Tisdale’s blood.”

  “It’s a connection,” Fairmont said. “We’ll make a note of it,” Parks said. “He has his marking, so then this fish left in Jason Bollinger’s hands isn’t it. Then what is it? What are the possibilities? What if all of these victims are connected? Somehow. Someway. We can connect victim two to victim three. Ian Harris spied on the Bollingers. That’s their connection. But what connects Allison Tisdale with Ian Harris? Or with Bollinger?”

  “Assuming they are connected,” Moore commented.

  “I think they are,” Parks said. “It might be a long shot, but I think each of our victims is connected to each other in some way or another. Like sections of a train. One after the other.”

  “So what does that have to do with the fish?” Fairmont asked.

  “What if the fish is Jason Bollinger’s connection to potential victim number four?”

  “How’s that?”

  “I don’t know,” Parks admitted. “It’s just a theory. But what if? So far we haven’t been able to find a believable reason why that fish is there. It doesn’t serve any purpose that we can find. So what if?” He looked around the table. His entire team was worn out. Their shoulders sagged and their faces were long with glazed-over eyes staring out into nothingness. “Anyway, it’s just a theory. Tippin, I want you to look up all you can on the fish and see where they’re available around here.”

  “Will do,” Tippin said.

  “We met with Bollinger’s wife earlier today,” Moore added. “She’s shaken up and wasn’t in any condition to be questioned. She’s staying at a friend’s house. She agreed we could question her tomorrow and take her by the house and see if there’s anything out of the ordinary about it or anything that the killer may have moved or changed. I think you should come with me. You’re . . . good with people. She’s going to need a delicate touch to her interviewing process.”

  “Sure thing,” Parks said. “And there was nothing else at the Bollinger residence?”

  “No signs of breaking and entering,” Moore said, going over her notes. “No fingerprints. No strange fibers or biologicals. What about the husband?”

  “Bollinger?” Parks asked.

  “No. The first one. Tisdale. Our original prime suspect. The chemistry professor?”

  “Douglas Tisdale’s a bust as of right now. I had a car on him since earlier this week. According to them he hasn’t left his house except to plan for his wife’s funeral. He was there for a few hours, and they didn’t have eyes on him the whole time. But unless he snuck out the back to do this . . . for now we’ll keep an eye on him, but I think it’s doubtful. Other than that, he’s been home all week. So I don’t see how he could have done these.”

  Parks took a moment to soak everything in.

  “Did we go over what Wilkes and his men originally pulled from the crime scene?”

  “Yes,” Moore said, standing up and walking to the murder board where pictures of the crime scene were taped out across the board. “Along with the emptied digital camera, we have a pair of binoculars, a tube of women’s lipstick, a bottle of vodka and an empty glass that had been on the table next to the body. Each item has been dusted for prints and checked for saliva and DNA. Everything belonged to Ian Harris with the exception of the women’s lipstick, which is a MAC brand color Hot Gossip, available at Macy’s and various other women’s boutiques for a simple $14.50 plus tax. Nothing special as far as anyone can tell. Hundreds of tubes of the product has been manufactured and can be purchased most everywhere.”

  “Great. Then what about the message that had been left with the lipstick.”

  “The three-one-three,” Moore continued. “So far nothing significant regarding either the murder or the victim has been discovered behind the numbers. Before we took over, Detective Hayward, from Wilkes’s team, had discovered that three-one-three was the area code for Detroit, Michigan.

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “The birth date of Donald Duck. March 13.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the frame of the Zapruder film where President Kennedy’s head explodes.”

  “I see,” Parks said, not sure what to make of the facts. “Next?”

  “Then there’s the empty package that had been delivered to Ian Harris. The package had fingerprints besides Ian’s on it, but IAFIS hasn’t come up with a positive identification. It was discovered by Detective Ramirez that the prints on the package also matched a print found on the tube of lipstick. There were no identifiable marks on the package showing who had shipped it to Ian Harris, how it was paid for, or how it had even gotten to him.”

  “Okay. For the rest of the night I want us to keep going over all of the evidence that we already have in our hands. Go over the crime scenes. The bodies. Everything. What we need to do, people, is figure out what our killer is trying to say. Why is he doing this? What’s the purpose? Why these people? This isn’t all just a coincidence. There’s reasoning behind all of this. It may not make sense to us but it does to our killer, and we need to find out why. We need to dissect these people’s lives. There’s something connecting them. At least in the killer’s eyes. Something that should lead us to the next victim before our killer gets to him or her.”

  Everyone began to stand and stretch as Parks’s cell phone rang. He read the number on the screen, not recognizing it.

  “Detective Parks,” he answered as he flipped open the phone.

  “Dave?” a female voice said.

  Parks paused for a second, trying to identify the voice.

  “Dave?”

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  “It’s Jackie.”

  “Oh, hey, Jackie,” Parks said with a smile. “What’s up? Is something wrong?”

  “No, no,” she said. “Everything’s fine with me. I was calling because . . . you’re not around a TV, are you?”

  “No,” he said, a question in his voice.

  “You have one nearby?”

  “There’s one in the break room. What’s up?”

  “Turn it on,” Jackie said. “Channel ten.”

  14

  “Son of a bitch,” Parks cursed under his breath as he stood in front of the small television set that sat off to the side in the break room. Unfortunately, Parks’s language wasn’t enough to get Hardwick to turn from the television. Her eyes, just like everyone else’s in the room, were glued to what Channel 10 crime reporter Charles Wyler was commenting on.

  “While police refuse to officially comment on the murders, sources close to the investigation have confirmed that the two murders in neighboring apartment complexes are related. Our inside source has also confirmed that at this time the police have no solid leads.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Parks hissed again as he turned from the TV and stormed out of the room.

  “Parks,” Hardwick called out as she followed him into the conference room. “Parks.”

  “It was Wilkes,” Parks said accusingly.

  “You don’t know that,” Hardwick replied. “But if it was, and I find out, I’ll nail his ass to the wall and make sure it stays there.”

  “No leads. Of course there are no leads. We just got the case a few hours ago. Who do they think we are? Magicians? I know it was him. Anything to make a buck on the s
ide and screw me in the process.”

  “Forget about Wilkes. You have a case to work. It doesn’t matter what the reporters say or who told them about it. The fact remains that we have a killer on the loose and it’s your job to find him. That going to be a problem now?”

  Parks remained quiet.

  “Good,” Hardwick said, taking his silence to be an affirmative answer. “Now grab your coat and let’s get out of here.”

  “Sir? I mean, ma’am?” Parks said, correcting himself. It hadn’t been the first time someone, let alone himself, had called Jane Hardwick a sir, and he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be the last. She didn’t resemble a man physically; it was more her ability to blend into the department and become one of the guys that added to the often-made mistake.

  “You need a drink. And so do I. Your team is good enough to handle the next hour or two without you. And we should talk. Let’s go.”

  “Ma’am?” Parks hesitated, not sure if he should move or not.

  “That’s an order, Parks. Move your ass.”

  * * *

  Hardwick drove a little over a mile away to Grand Street and parked in an underground garage before leading Parks up to Casey’s Irish Pub. The famous downtown pub was located below street level and they walked down two flights of stairs to a brick and wrought-iron patio area where two couples played pool off in a corner. A doorman flirted with a hostess who sat on a stool next to the front door. He turned, ready to ask the two for ID, when he recognized Hardwick. He gave her a hug and a smile as he kissed her on each cheek and nodded them inside, while also keeping an eye on Parks. On the left was a massive mahogany bar while wooden booths lined the opposite wall. Above the booths was a giant chalkboard with various specialties and Irish quotes and historical facts scribbled with sporadic organization.

  The bar was empty except for two girls and a guy sitting at the far end, staring up at one of the several flat-screen televisions mounted above the bar showing various sporting events. Hardwick stopped at the end of the bar closest to the front entrance and knocked twice to get the attention of a female bartender cleaning glasses at the other end. The young woman smiled and walked over as she dried off her hands.

  “What can I getcha?” the bartender said with an Irish brogue that was so muddled Parks couldn’t determine if it was real and faded after years in America or an act put on by all the establishment’s employees. She was cute, in an almost tomboyish sort of way, with short-cropped blonde hair and a powdered-white, pointed nose.

  “Two Jameson pickle backs,” Hardwick answered as she remained standing.

  Parks looked to Hardwick with doubt on his face. Casey’s was known for brewing their own pickle juice, which they offered as a chaser for a shot of Jameson. Parks couldn’t recall the last time he had ever had a shot of Jameson, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to start with Hardwick.

  “Just drink it,” Hardwick ordered as the bartender arrived with their shots. “It’ll put hair on your chest.”

  She laughed at the comment and winked at the bartender. She downed her shot then followed it with the shot of pickle juice.

  Parks sighed to himself as he downed the shot and followed it with the pickle juice, expecting to begin coughing and look like a fool. Instead, both the liquor and the chaser went down smoothly, and he found himself enjoying it and wanting another. Hardwick smiled at Parks and looked at the bartender, held up two fingers, and circled them around to signal for another round of shots, which were quickly set up.

  “Keep ‘em comin’.” Hardwick picked up her shot and downed half of it, followed by half her pickle juice.

  “Do you know what two of the most commonly asked questions of cops are?” Hardwick asked, staring up at Parks.

  Parks sat silently, not sure where the conversation was going.

  “Why did you become a cop?” Hardwick said, answering her own question. “And why are you a cop?”

  “Really? I would have thought it would be, have you ever killed anyone?” Parks said somewhat mockingly as he took another sip of his drink.

  “Been a while since I killed someone. You trying to fix that for me tonight?” Hardwick glared and Parks remained quiet. “Anyway. So I throw that question onto you now. Why?”

  “Which question?”

  Hardwick stared back. “I’ve read your files and I’ve worked with you for almost a decade now. I know the answer to them both. I’m just wondering if you’re aware of it. Why did you become a cop?”

  “I dunno. Because I was looking . . . for . . .”

  “Bullshit,” Hardwick said, finishing her drink. “Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. I was lost and looking for a way. Blah, blah, blah. I say most cops were born to be cops. The good ones at least. Put on the path one way or another way before they knew it. You say you became a cop because you were lost after your divorce? I say you got a divorce to become lost to give you a reason to become a cop without knowing it.”

  “Yes, Zen godmother. Is this one of those chicken-egg riddles?”

  “I swear, Parks, if you make me take my gun out in here and use it,” Hardwick said, shaking her head and motioning for more shots. “Seriously. You think you simply became a cop because you were bored and needed purpose? Bullshit. Sure that happens. A lot of cops are like that. But the good ones. The really good ones—like you, Parks—I feel are born to be cops. You don’t think your father’s suicide helped put you on a path to become a cop? Not to mention your mother’s abandonment not much longer after that?”

  “Despite my parents, I didn’t have a traumatic upbringing.”

  “Didn’t say you did. I don’t think all good cops need to be flawed like that. The classic, haunted past or whatever. But you can’t tell me that what happened to you as a child has had no effect on the rest of your life. You have been withdrawn most of your life. A loner. But that makes you stronger. You’ve learned not to depend on anyone else and you work great on your own. Your failed marriage? You can’t tell me the thought of your father and mother’s abandonment had nothing to do with the destruction of your marriage. You and Jennifer were going strong until you got married. She was your first. First love and first heartbreak. Don’t tell me that Doc Black hasn’t had a field day with you on the subconscious parallels between what happened with your parents and your own failed marriage. Even I can tell you about those.”

  “There was more to it than feeling pressure from ghosts,” Parks said steadily.

  “I know,” Hardwick said, realizing she was close to stepping over a line, which wasn’t her goal in this conversation. “What about why you are a cop? Why are you a cop?”

  “To make the world a safer place, I guess,” he answered. “Just like most other cops, I would imagine.”

  “See, but unlike every other cop, who are you making this world a safer place for? You don’t have a family. No wife. No children. No siblings. A mother you don’t talk to and a father who’s dead. An aunt and uncle who raised you, yet you rarely ever see. So I ask you again, who are you making the world a safer place for?”

  Parks glanced away from the table as if to say for everyone else out in the world that needed it to be a safer place to live.

  “I’m not the only single officer on the force.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Hardwick said, brushing off Parks’s comment. “Only problem is, that’s such a global answer for such a small effect. Most cops want to make the world a safer place. But as an individual there’s not much difference one can make other than for their own little spot in the world.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “We have some of the smartest men and women I’ve ever met working with us day and night. Yet you’re one of the few people I know I can have an intelligent, human conversation with. You’re well educated. Always reading, enlightening yourself to learn and know more. You push yourself. You’re attentive. Observant. Gentle when needed but tough as well.”” Hardwick chuckled at this observation and took another swallow of her drink. “Unfortunately
, I think your biggest assets are also your biggest flaws.”

  “And what are those?”

  “For starters? Your need to be needed. Most likely due to being so alone.”

  “Come again?”

  “For some reason you can’t help yourself. It’s what helps drive you. Your need to be needed. To help people. To be in control. To do everything for everyone at once. To be piled upon until it’s almost too much. You know how to delegate, yet you still manage to let it all stack up around you. You take care of your own. Even sometimes when they don’t want you to. You feel it’s up to you to fix everyone’s problems. You want everyone on your squad to get along like a family—let’s not start on that subject just now—and to succeed. To be the best they can be. And that’s not bad. But you take it so personally. As if their failures were your own.”

  “What are you getting at?” Parks repeated as he downed his shot and chaser.

  “How are you doing?”

  Parks looked at Hardwick, one eyebrow raised. “What do you mean?”

  “Kozlov. Levinson. You and I haven’t exactly talked about it. I mean outside the official reports and meetings with the department heads. I know you’re seeing Doc Black several times a week and he’s yet to report to me that I need to take you off duty, so I’m assuming all is good there. But you and I haven’t spoken about it. I can tell you’re not sleeping well. At least not since the start of this case. I know you’ve got PTSD, and don’t tell me you don’t. I’ve been there.”

  “I keep seeing children, standing in the dark. They open their mouths to say something and nothing but blood comes pouring out. I also see Kozlov and his razor blades every time I close my eyes. I know the bastard’s locked up. And I know it’s silly. But I keep seeing him everywhere. Little flashes in crowds out in public. I don’t know why either. That’s what really bugs me about it. I’ve been attacked by perps before.”

  “He almost killed you, that’s why. Sure the ambulance got there to save you in time but you were pretty cut up. Lost a lot of blood. I can’t recall a time you were ever that badly hurt.”