by J. R. Rain
“Mr. Wells, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Mr. Gibson was found dead last night.”
“What? No!” Cameron gasps, a hand flying to his mouth. “Who would want to hurt him? He’s a big ol’ marshmallow. Wouldn’t harm anyone.”
I offer a sympathetic look. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Can you think of anyone who might’ve had an issue with him?”
“No. No one.” Cameron shakes his head, then goes wide-eyed. “Do you think I might’ve? Oh, my. We truly did part as friends. I’m sure you’ll check his computer or some such. Should be chats still on Facebook between us.”
Rick jots a note or two and smiles. “Thanks. Yeah, we’ll be checking on that.”
“Oh, Benjamin…” Cameron sighs and leans his weight on the bar. “The world’s not a fair place, is it? I guess you can’t tell me anything, but I hope you’ll let me know when you find the son of a bitch. Anything I can do to help, I will.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wells.” Rick shakes his hand.
“Sorry to come bearing such bad news.” I shake hands with him next. “Are you okay? Can we do anything to help you?”
He wipes a tear. “I thought I was over him in that way, you know? Guess not. Maybe I’m the one who spent the past year pining. I shouldn’t have made such a big deal about his job. Then we’d have been living together and the creep wouldn’t have…” Cameron looks between us, his eyes widening with worry. “Did someone go after Ben on purpose? Would they have attacked him anywhere?”
“It’s too early to tell for sure,” I say, “but it’s starting to feel like it might’ve actually been random.”
“If you can think of anything or anyone that might’ve gotten someone upset enough with Mr. Gibson to escalate to killing him, please let us know.” Rick hands over a card. “Even if it sounds trivial, it might be important.”
“All right.” Cameron takes the card and tucks it into his vest pocket. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“We appreciate it.” I take a long sip from the water and set the glass down. “Thank you.”
It’s tempting to grab lunch since we’re already in a restaurant, but… this place feels too expensive, plus I can’t eat right in front of a man we just dropped ‘the news’ on.
“Sorry for your loss,” says Rick. Once we’re outside, he glances at me. “Thinkin’ lunch. You?”
“Let me guess. You want to go to Burger King?”
Rick grins. “You are magical.”
I laugh. “Might as well. I haven’t had fast food in a couple of years.”
“Swear off it?” Rick pulls the car door open and glances over the roof at me.
“Nah. Never really cared for it. Too fake. Too much salt. Two days of calories in one meal.”
“Since when have you become a health nut?” He grins and flops into the seat.
“Since I got it in my head to join the police force.” I hop in and shut the door. “But I don’t think one burger will kill me.”
He looks at me while he starts the car. “Never taunt fate like that. But don’t worry. I know the Heimlich.”
I smirk. “Drive.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter Eight
Zero Trace
Wednesday Afternoon – July 12, 2017
The next morning, we’re treated to the reports of everything the tech guys pulled from Benjamin’s computer, phone, and even PlayStation. Upside: we’ll probably spend all day at the office. Downside: hours of tedium.
It’s not too difficult for me to put up with, though. All I need to do is hold onto the mental image of the scene inside that apartment. Benjamin did not deserve to die, especially not in that manner. Not to mention, if Rick’s half-serious suggestion that we’re looking at a serial killer turns out to be correct, it’s on us to stop him before another person turns up dead.
My instinct tells me that we’re after a man, someone big enough to overpower Benjamin and drag him around. While Rick runs down the list of current and former employees our victim managed as well as anyone who had cell phone contact with him, I attack the online profile. He didn’t use Facebook much at all, so that’s easy. Of course, slogging through the report of every PlayStation online account he had contact with is going to take all week.
The appeal of this never made sense to me. Online games, I mean. Then again, like my grandpa used to say, “It takes all types to make this world go ‘round.”
Anyway, his gaming transcripts are either a masterpiece of tragedy or a black comedy. About half the contacts involved death threats or extreme amounts of profanity. I spend about twenty minutes on the phone with Clayton in our technical forensics team, during which he explains that the vast majority of the ‘death threats’ are likely other players Benjamin ‘killed’ in the game and they got pissed off. Fair bet, most of it is young teens venting steam with no real intention of hurting him. Course, in this day and age, it’s hard to tell the difference.
Evidently, Clayton thinks gems such as ‘I’m going to rip your balls off and stuff them down your throat, light your house on fire, and piss out the ashes’ translates to: ‘you played better than me and I’m immature and can’t handle it.’ Especially whenever the death threat includes accusations of cheating or hacking.
So, yeah. I’ve got hundreds of these to sift through in case one of the ‘pissed-off kiddies’ is really a grown man who wasn’t simply raging in impotent fury. Okay, open the mind, Mads. The killer might be an unusually strong woman. I’d like to believe that my sex wouldn’t be prone to murdering someone over a video game, but I’ve seen video of Walmart on Black Friday.
At least I can filter and sort this file… I hide all the profiles belonging to people younger than fifteen within a hundred-mile radius. Anyone under eighteen who lives farther away, I hide as well. While a fifteen-year-old can easily be big enough to have dragged Benjamin around, they would lack the ability to travel great distances on an impulse. And so begins the long hours of phone calls and cross-checking these people against the system, looking for anyone with priors or any flags that indicate the person might’ve been prone to actually kill someone.
About ten minutes before noon, Rick asks, “Any thoughts on lunch?”
“I’ve―” My phone rings. “One sec.”
He shoots a nasty look at the phone.
I pick up the receiver while writing, ‘salad or chx Caesar wrap’ on a Post-It note and holding it up. “Homicide, Wimsey.”
“Detective Wimsey, this is Dr. Rashad with the medical examiner’s office,” says a woman with a mild Indian accent. “I’m calling in reference to the case regarding a Mr. Benjamin Gibson.”
Rick opens his mouth, perhaps to protest my admittedly healthy lunch idea, but his phone rings. He stares at the ceiling, sighs, and answers.
“Oh!” I perk up and open a blank notepad file on my laptop. “Great. What’cha got?”
“The decedent’s cause of death is a combination of myocardial infarction, likely brought on by a mixture of extreme fear and severe blood loss, as well as pulmonary embolism. Primary external injury is a twelve-millimeter incision that breached the cervical common carotid artery and also severed the vagus nerve.
“However, microscopic analysis of the wound shows a high likelihood that the victim’s artery had been initially punctured by a hypodermic needle of the type commonly used to draw blood samples, then later enlarged by an exceedingly sharp blade. We believe the killer may have used a scalpel. Due to the needle, it is quite likely you’re looking for someone in the medical profession or who has access to medical supplies and at least a rudimentary knowledge of anatomy.”
“Thank you, doctor. Can you tell how long Mr. Gibson may have been conscious?”
Dr. Rashad makes a few subvocal noises along with the click of computer keys. “It’s somewhat difficult to say with any degree of certainty. Depends on how long the killer used the needle before making the incision. A cut that deep would’ve led to unconsciousness withi
n seven or eight seconds, but if the majority of the blood drained via the needle, it could have taken significantly longer. The victim suffered injuries consistent with prolonged abrasion of both wrists, suggesting he had been bound for some time prior to death.”
I type out some notes. “I don’t remember seeing blood on the ceiling above the victim, so I think the deep cut most likely occurred after he lost consciousness. A slice like that on the carotid would’ve sprayed blood with enough force to hit the ceiling, right?”
“Considering where the victim’s heart rate would have been at the time, more than likely, yes,” says Dr. Rashad. “We’re declaring this death officially a homicide, Detective Wimsey. Other than a frightening level of cholesterol, Mr. Gibson was in relatively decent health. We found no evidence of intoxicants or drugs other than Advil. He did have elevated blood sugar approaching pre-diabetic levels, but would’ve been asymptomatic.”
“So, you’re saying he wasn’t a health-conscious eater…”
“Indeed. Mr. Gibson’s coronary health was not in such a deleterious state as to warrant a heart attack. His death came as a direct result of blood loss caused by an external actor. Our final reports should be ready in a day or two, and we’ll send them over in the usual manner.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
“You’re welcome. Have a good day.”
I hang up, then rest my face in both hands, elbows on my desk. Ugh. What a horrible way to die. It’s futile for me to try and not picture the guy tied to a chair and fighting for his life while he’s bleeding out. Did the killer just stand there and watch in silence? Did he taunt the man? Why Benjamin Gibson? No drugs in his system, so my theory that the killer had to be strong enough to overpower him appears on the right track.
Wham! “Shit!”
I nearly jump out of my chair as Rick slams the phone down. Linda lets out a startled, “Gah!” Parrish, Quarrel, and Washington all prairie-dog up to look at him. Rick grimaces like he’s just committed seppuku.
“So, uhh, Santiago… did you just get transferred to the clown case?” asks Linda.
Parrish and Quarrel groan.
Rick jams both hands into his hair, raking his fingers up over his skull. “Ugh. No.” He swivels to face me. “Just got off the phone with Nielsen. The killer’s a ghost.”
“Then you’ve got the best woman for the job on your team,” says Linda.
I smirk at her.
“No, not a literal ghost, Gonzalez.” Rick rubs the bridge of his nose. “CSI’s come up with zilch. Not even one damn hair. No prints. No skin fragments, no fibers… nothing. The footprints by the window are inconclusive due to the amount of grass. The only thing they came up with is that it’s probably a man with size fourteen shoes.”
“Whoa,” says Washington. “That’s frickin’ huge!”
“That’s what she said,” mutters Gonzalez.
Detective Andy Quarrel’s cheeks redden.
Washington and Parrish crack up. I was only going to smile at that in silence, but watching Quarrel squirm pushes me over the edge and I laugh along with them.
“Sounds like you’re dealing with a pro.” Linda gives me a sympathetic look. “What’d your vic do to piss off the CIA?”
Mirth is short lived. I sigh at the computer screen. “That’s not funny.”
“Wanna trade?” asks Parrish. “I’d take that over this damn clown thing any day.”
I ignore him and say, “Great. So, all we gotta do is find a seven-foot tall, four-hundred-pound murderous ghost in size fourteen boots.”
“’Bout sums it up,” says Rick.
My hair flops over my face.
“Got clowns whenever you want it…” Parrish waves a manila folder at me like he’s teasing a dog with a treat.
“You’re not really…?” whispers Quarrel.
Parrish and Rick break out in chuckles, but go back to working on their computers.
“No, Andy.” Parrish drops the folder on his desk. “But I am afraid your operating system needs to be reinstalled. All the humor.dll files are missing.”
Andy stares at him, eyebrows knit together.
I can’t find the ability to laugh at that, not with the way this case is developing. Our killer is either a professional―which seems wildly unlikely since Gibson wasn’t involved in anything even remotely significant enough to get that kind of attention―or we’ve got a serial killer on our hands. Someone who’s put enough thought and planning into murder that he took steps to leave a clean crime scene.
Ugh. I let my head fall forward onto my arms atop the desk.
This is going to suck.
Chapter Nine
The Shadow
Wednesday Evening – July 12, 2017
I don’t leave the station until a little after seven, having spent most of the day spinning my wheels on useless leads.
The most promising ‘death threats’ from the online contacts all turned out to be nothingburgers. Ugh, did I just say that? Anyway, just a bunch of Internet tough guys who couldn’t handle losing at a video game. Only two of them raised red flags due to repeated contact and multiple threats over several sessions, but, after a few phone calls, I discover that neither of them had been in the area around the time of Mr. Gibson’s death.
Driving in the rain is soothing at least. I love the sound of tires on wet road, and even the repetitive whirr-squeak of the wipers. I’m half-tempted to stand ‘sky-clad’ in the privacy of my backyard for a while once I get home and let the Goddess wash all my frustrations into the earth.
The winding roads on the way home take my mind off the case for a little while, though I can’t help but get into an argument with myself. Caius makes plenty of money to support us both. I don’t have to be a homicide cop. I don’t have to deal with the worst of the worst, the degenerates and psychopaths, the cunning and not so cunning killers. I don’t have to spend hours and days wading through tedious details that may or may not pan out. Oh, but when details do pan out… but when the killers are caught. Damn, what a feeling, knowing that one less scumbag is off the streets. Yeah, few jobs are so rewarding. Looking a mother in the eye and telling her that we got her daughter’s killer. Or, in this case, looking a dead man’s brother in the eye and reassuring him the man responsible will pay for it.
All that said, maybe I could be happy running a little shop selling herbs, gardening supplies, and remedies. Even if it didn’t make money, it wouldn’t matter. At least, not unless Caius’ music career went off the rails.
I shake my head. Goddess, I think I would be bored to tears. Truth is, I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie. I enjoy feeling my heartbeat race. I enjoy challenging a witness’s story. I even love the chase of it all. Really, I love every bit of this work, even the danger. This job, quite frankly, helps me feel alive. We could all use such a boost.
I ease the Silverado around a long, sweeping rightward curve. A green Volvo with his high beams on comes the other way. Asshat. And it’s not even dark yet.
And yeah, who am I kidding? I didn’t join the police force for money. I didn’t work my butt off to make detective only to get frustrated the first time I get a real WTF case. Okay, so this one’s like trying to find a shooter who put a rifle slug in the air two cities over that randomly came down on our victim, but I’m not walking away. No way. I was going to find this fucker. Someone, somewhere knows something. No way the killer’s this clever.
After all, Mr. Gibson’s got much better odds than that poor John Doe who washed up in the warehouse district. At least here, I know the killer isn’t on the other side of the globe. No, our suspect is more than likely a serial killer… or at least someone with a real damn good chance of becoming one. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure Benjamin wasn’t the first victim. It’s beyond belief for a ‘hey let’s see how it feels to kill someone’ type murderer to get in and out of a crime scene without leaving any sign of their presence. Curiosity-slash-thrill seekers aren’t that careful. This is a guy who treat
s murder like a passionate hobby―or a business. But if I seriously start to suspect McDonald’s is sending cleaners to wipe out Burger King managers, I think I’m going to get myself drug-tested.
The curve straightens for about a hundred feet, then a sharper left up ahead. When I get close to the turn, a black BMW comes sliding around it right at me―sideways. With a yelp, I hit the brakes. The Beemer’s tires grip the road seconds before the nose of my truck would’ve made contact with the driver’s-side door, and the black car straightens out in the lane, missing me by inches. Only the height difference of our vehicles stops our side mirrors from smashing together. We both screech to a stop. My truck’s at the sharpest point of the curve, giving me a view in both directions, but someone coming toward me is gonna whip around and plow straight into the Beemer’s rear end.
Fortunately, the road in front of me holds no cars, just the swirling mist of rain.
I turn on my dome light and hazards, then hop out into the downpour.
A thirtyish woman in a white coat’s already out of the BMW, starting toward me in the midst of a panic.
“You can’t leave the car there,” I shout. “Someone coming around the bend will plow right into you.”
“I’m sorry!” The woman flails her arms. The screams of a baby and a toddler emanate from the open door behind her.
I sprint across the road, grab her arm, and drag her back to the car. “You need to move the car down about fifty feet if you’re too upset to drive.”
“We almost crashed,” says the woman, shaking. “Aren’t we supposed to stop and call the police?”
“I am the police.” I hold up the badge around my neck. “Look, there’s a grassy patch down there. Pull over on that and I’ll be right there. Get the car off the road before someone hits you.”