“Wonderful.”
“You don’t have to worry,” Matthews said. “You’ll be retired by then.”
“I’m not leaving till this killer is caught.”
The two police officers turned around and headed back up the wall to where their cars were parked. They reached the top of the wash in silence and then slipped under the yellow tape. Stepping over to his car, Peterson gazed at the reporters across the chasm and shook his head.
“The news media is going to have a field day with this,” he said.
“It is what it is, Frank.”
Peterson didn’t say anything else. He got into his car and drove across the lot to the street, leaving Matthews standing there in the breeze, shrugging his shoulder, and then wiping away the cloud of dust that filled the air.
Las Vegas—Halloween Night—A Month Later
Lt. Frank Peterson was on the verge of leaving his house on the east side of town when his cell phone rang. He had everything on except for his grey suit jacket, which was folded over the top of a recliner in the living room. A Glock .40 caliber pistol was holster on his side, looking out of place with his tailor-made pants, long-sleeved blue dress shirt, and his hundred-dollar tie.
Removing a cell phone from his pants pocket, he opened it and placed the phone to his ear. “This is Peterson,” he said.
His captain then started ranting about the cost of tonight’s operation. Peterson listened to the man’s complaints, and then finally began to respond to them.
“I can’t help the cost, Captain,” Peterson said. “It’s a full moon, and we need every available man out on the street tonight. We have to catch this maniac before he strikes again. An uncaught serial killer is a sure way for the gamblers to go somewhere else.”
The captain said something else which caused Peterson to grind his teeth in frustration.
“Think about the revenue the city will lose if people stop flocking by the millions to Las Vegas,” he said. “You don’t want Vegas to become a ghost town, do you, Captain? All it takes is one word to get out that our city is now the “serial-killer” capital of the world.”
Peterson listened for another moment as the captain said something else.
“I understand, sir. You’ll be the first person I notify if anything breaks this evening.” Disconnecting the call, the lieutenant hit the speed-dial on the phone and called Matthews. “Dwayne, it’s me. I’m leaving now. I’m going over to check the concrete tunnels beneath the Linq Hotel & Casino. I’ll have my cell phone with me if you need to get in touch.”
Pausing for a second, Peterson took in what Matthews was telling him.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I just got off the phone with him. Tell everyone to stay alert.”
Peterson ended the conversation and put the cell phone back into his pocket. Picking up his suit jacket, he slipped into it and decided to leave the living room light on. He then went out the front door, locking it behind him.
******
Driving over to what had once been the Imperial Palace Hotel & Casino, Frank Peterson parked his car in Valet and showed the attendant his Metro badge. The young guy nodded and said the car would be parked over on the side when he returned. Getting out of the vehicle with a flashlight in his hand, Peterson made his way into the Linq Hotel & Casino, thinking about all the changes that had taken place in Las Vegas since he’d originally joined the force three decades ago.
It wasn’t the same city.
Peterson walked past a row of slot machines and saw a Security Officer standing near one of the bars. He showed the man his badge and asked him if the Director of Security was still on property. It took a few minutes, but then David Simpson appeared, walking through the elaborate Oriental casino, heading toward the bar, and introducing himself to the police officer. The man was middle-aged, wearing a nice jacket with a name badge on the lapel, dress slacks, and a white shirt and tie.
“How can I help you, Lieutenant?” Simpson asked.
“I need to take a look at the underground tunnels beneath the hotel,” Peterson said. “We have reason to believe a serial killer might be living in them.”
Simpson stared at the police officer for a moment, and then said, “I’ll take you down myself,” he said. “You do understand that the underground washes stretch for miles beneath the city and that thousands of homeless people live in them. The section under our hotel is small in comparison.”
“I’m aware of that, Mr. Simpson,” Peterson said. “Lead the way.”
The Director walked with the police officer to an unmarked door that was just past the Poker Room. He unlocked it with a set of keys from his coat pocket, and then motioned for the lieutenant to enter the stairwell.
Once inside, Simpson took the lead and guided Frank Peterson three floors down. The only two things at the bottom were another lone door and a glass case on the wall with a flashlight inside of it. Grabbing the flashlight, the Director of Security unlocked the door. He opened it and pointed the flashlight downward to the stone steps and a metal railing that led to the underground channel.
Peterson made his way down the short flight of steps and looked back up as Simpson relocked the door behind them.
“You can’t be too cautious,” Simpson said as he joined the lieutenant. “The homeless have a snack for finding an unlocked door, and then turning the stairwell into a roost where they live for a few days, until they’re finally caught.” Simpson glanced to his left and then to the right down the large tunnel. “Which way would you like to go?”
Noticing the tiny yellow lights built into the tunnel’s ceiling, Peterson saw a wide opening that led north in the direction of Harrah’s. The passageway there was dark and uninviting. The yellow lights in the ceiling seemed to only run from east to west.
“Let’s head that way,” Peterson said, pointing to the opening.
“You have a weapon?” Simpson asked.
Peterson pulled his jacket aside and showed him the holstered Glock.
“That’s what I have on me,” Simpson said. “You can never be too sure about these tunnels. It’s always best to be armed.”
They both crossed the tunnel floor and entered the opening on the other side, their footsteps echoing down the long passageway. Simpson kept his flashlight pointed ahead, while Peterson used his to scan the sides and rear, making sure there was no one sneaking up on them. As they moved further along the tunnel, a slight shuffling sound could be heard in the distance.
“What’s that noise?” Peterson asked.
“Probably the homeless moving to different location,” Simpson said. “Uniformed cops come down here every couple of months to roust the people. I have no idea where they’re expected to go. These storm drains are like the last stop for most of them. Hell, they see a light coming their way and immediately hightail it to another part of the wash.”
“I don’t blame them.”
Peterson’s light swept over some empty hamburger bags, an empty bottle of wine, soda cans, used condoms, and a lone, isolated Florsheim shoe, setting near the wall as if it was searching for its partner.
Less than thirty yards had been covered when the two men came upon a large opening on the left. They both shined their flashlights into it and saw old blankets on the floor, a hotplate, a couple of empty cans of beans and corn-beef hash, and a well-used copy of a Playboy magazine.
There was nobody around.
“I guess whoever it was took off,” Simpson said.
Hearing a noise to the rear, Peterson swung around and aimed his flashlight in the direction they’d just come from.
Nothing was there.
“Hell,” he said, “I’m starting to get the heebie-jeebies.”
“This place will do that to you.”
“Where does this tunnel lead?” Peterson asked.
“It goes underneath the area between Caesars Palace and The Mirage,” Simpson said. He raised his flashlight further up so its light shined a few yards into the passageway. The light
caught the tail end of a homeless man dashing into the darkness. “Want to follow him?”
“Let’s do that,” Peterson said. “Maybe there’s a McDonalds up ahead.”
Simpson chuckled and said, “I doubt it, but who knows.”
They started moving west inside the storm drain, passing more empty food bags, blankets, and even an old dresser bureau.
Peterson couldn’t help but wonder how someone had managed to get a dresser bureau down into the tunnel. His mind then shifted with the sound of someone behind them. The footsteps were soft and gentle upon the rough concrete, but he still heard them. Spinning around, he directed the flashlight toward the rear and thought he saw a darker shadow dart from the tunnel entrance. He drew the Glock semi-automatic out of its holster and cocked the hammer back.
Simpson heard the handgun being cocked and glanced over at the police officer, who was staring at the other tunnel they’d just left with wide eyes.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant, I’ll protect you.”
Hearing the rebuke in Simpson’s voice, Peterson forced a smile. “This serial killer has murdered over five people in different locations along the wash,” he said. “He tears off their head, and then eats their heart. I don’t want this crazy fucker sneaking up on me in the dark.”
The expression on Simpson’s face changed to one of contemplation as he drew his own handgun and said, “Maybe you have a point.”
They continued down the tunnel, hearing the sounds of movement in front of them and behind. Whenever they would shine their lights in the direction of the noise, there would be nobody in the vicinity. When they eventually reached the point where the tunnel branched off to the left toward Caesars and to the right toward The Mirage, they looked at each other with a questioning expression.
“Should we take the left tunnel or the right one?” Simpson asked.
“Let’s do the passageway on the right.”
They veered to the right and continued walking, working their flashlights from left to right.
******
The calm night had turned windy, blowing through the trees inside Paradise Village Way and rustling the leaves like a frantic bill collector. A chill in the air had made it a cold evening for trick-or-treaters who were underdressed, but it didn’t seem to stop them from knocking on the doors and waiting for candy to be tossed into their bags.
It was nearly seven o’clock when Ben Freeman parked his black SUV in the space behind his home, climbed out, and entered the kitchen through the back patio. He’d been lucky to get off early. The General Manager of the hotel had wanted him to stay till ten. Freeman had assured him that if he left early, the hotel wasn’t going to burn down and that the Assistant Director of Security would be there to handle any problems. His boss had eventually relented and told him to head on home.
With Betty, his long nosed, floppy-eared, Pit Bull jumping around in excitement, Freeman made his way through the kitchen and into the living room. He saw Sheila standing at the front door, handing out Nestle Crunch bars and Butterfingers to the costumed kids. He kissed her on the side of the neck which caused some of the children to giggle.
I’m going upstairs to change clothes,” he said to his wife. “Then, I’ll take the Princess out for her nightly walk.”
She punched him playfully in the arm and said, “You just don’t want to hand out the candy.”
“True,” he said.
******
The unusual sounds that filled the large storm drains had mysteriously stopped and it became as quiet as a church on a Friday night.
“What happened to the noises?” Peterson asked.
“No idea,” Simpson said, “but there’s a light in the distance, just around the bend. It might have something to do with the sudden quietness.”
“Lead the way,” Peterson said, motioning with his gun hand for Simpson to take point. “Let’s hope it isn’t the killer. I wouldn’t want to die down here. It would be years before anyone found my body.”
“You’re full of positive remarks, Lieutenant.”
“It comes from being nervous.”
“Well, follow me,” Simpson said. He raised his pistol and started walking toward the distant light. “The sooner we get this over, the sooner I can get home.”
******
When Freeman was finally dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt, and running shoes, he went downstairs and got his tan leather bomber jacket from out of the hallway closet.
Betty knew it was time for her walk.
She was wagging her tail and hopping up and down like a little kangaroo. Freeman couldn’t help but laugh as he got the leash out of the ottoman against the wall and sat down on it. He motioned her over and quickly put the muzzle and leash on her snout. Then, standing up, he snatched a Butterfingers candy bar from the wooden bowl Sheila was holding.
“You’re going to get fat,” Sheila said. She then gave him one of those heart-stopping smiles that always made his legs quiver. “What time will you be back?”
“Twenty minutes,” he said, grinning. “Thirty at the most.”
“I can already see that gleam of mischievousness in your eyes, Ben Freeman. Are you hoping to get lucky tonight?”
“Remember what Tim Robbins said in The Shawshank Redemption about hope?”
“Oh, no,” she said, smiling. “Not another movie quote.”
“Hope is a good thing,” he continued, ignoring her look of exasperation, “perhaps the best of things and no good thing ever dies.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what the man said.
“Then you’d better keep on hoping,” she said with a laugh.
Freeman winked at her as he took Betty to the door.
Leading Betty outside, he went down the sidewalk in front of their condominium, passing several kids in Halloween costumes as he tore the wrapper off the candy bar.
Freeman kept Betty on his right side and headed to the narrow street that divided the small community. He saw Ed Kulczynski with his two grandsons standing on the sidewalk across the traffic lane. The boys were dressed up like some of the characters from the new Star Wars movie.
“May the Force be with you, Ed,” Freeman said, waving at them with a smile on his face.
“I’ll sell you my two grandchildren,” Ed said.
“How much you want?”
“A dollar a piece sounds fair. Eileen has them keeping an eye on me to make sure I don’t smoke. I can’t get away with anything these days. Christ, I need a cigarette. You don’t happen to have one, do you?”
“Sheila made me stop smoking, too,” Freeman said. “Life’s a bitch.”
“Don’t I know it,” Ed said.
“But we love you, grandpa,” the oldest boy said.
“You just want me to give you five bucks to keep your mouth shut,” Ed said to him. “I know exactly how your mind works.”
“But…but you only gave me a dollar,” the youngest child whined.
“See what I mean, Ben?”
Freeman couldn’t stop laughing as he and Betty turned left and headed to Eastern Avenue. Betty did her personal business just before they exited the complex, and he picked it up with a blue bag. He found a plastic trash barrel and dumped the bag and candy wrapper into it. Then, stepping out onto Eastern, they took another left and walked to Reno Avenue.
As Freeman and Betty were making their way to the intersection, he noticed the stranger across the street, strolling past the 7-Eleven Store. The man was dressed in an old Army trench coat, well-worn combat boots, and tattered jungle fatigues.
He looked like a homeless vet.
Unfortunately, Freeman wasn’t able to see the guy’s face because of the shadows across the street and the tree the man stopped behind. He probably should’ve paid more attention; but, as it was, he soon forgot the fellow as he and Betty drew closer to Reno.
Betty, however, gave the homeless man the eye.
Something about the stranger alerted her to danger, but Fre
eman’s mind was on other things as they took their walk around the complex. In fact, he was thinking about making love to Sheila after dinner. The smile she’d given him had stirred his libido like it had the first time her brother had introduced them to each other. After four decades of marriage, he still desired his wife more than any other woman alive.
They swung a left onto Reno Avenue and began walking down the quiet street. That was when Freeman noticed Betty was lagging behind. The dog generally led the way as she sniffed a hundred different scents along the sidewalk. For some unknown reason, she wasn’t keeping pace and forced him to tug repeatedly on the leash. By the time they’d covered thirty feet, he came to a stop and looked down at her.
A Final Taste of Blood Page 2