by Anne Frasier
She stretched her spine and rolled her shoulders. “I need to go home and feed the cat.”
“Me too. Go home, that is, not feed a cat.” Uriah squinted at something on the monitor, jotting down notes on a pad of paper. Without glancing up, he added, “See you back here tomorrow.” He probably wasn’t going anywhere. He would sleep on the couch in the break room.
At home, Roof Cat circled Jude’s legs like a fish. She bent down to pet him very lightly on his head. Touching was something he allowed only before she fed him canned cat food. Since her schedule was so erratic, especially now, she also left out dry kibbles for him, but he wasn’t crazy about them.
She spooned cat food into his dish, took a shower, ate some raspberry yogurt, and drank a cup of herbal tea that was supposed to help a person sleep. So far, all it seemed to do was taste nasty. Her phone rang. It was Uriah. He had either a lead or bad news. She answered with dread.
“Another homicide with a familiar MO,” he said.
“Details?”
“All I know is Detective Valentine said he hoped we had strong stomachs.”
“Are you still at Headquarters?” she asked.
“Yep.”
Figured. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
She got dressed and grabbed her bag and helmet. She hurried down the stairs, her hair still wet, resisting the urge to silently retreat when she spotted Elliot with a key in his door.
“Hi.” Without making eye contact, she hurried past him, hand on the banister as she turned the corner to take the next flight of stairs to the basement and her motorcycle.
“I got a cat!” he shouted after her.
CHAPTER 17
The crime had taken place in a sprawling mansion overlooking Lake of the Isles, in what used to be one of the most upscale of upscale areas of Minneapolis.
For financial reasons or stubbornness, some owners were in the process of rebuilding after the destruction the blackouts had triggered. Others were trying to sell. The ground itself, due to the location—on a lake, within walking and biking distance of downtown—still retained value according to real estate agents, with the lots and crumbling structures supposedly worth close to a million each. But nobody was buying, and the For Sale signs had become a welcome mat for the uninvited. Police were called every few days to address the issues of squatters, vandalism, and drugs. But as far as Jude knew, this was the first homicide to take place in one of the homes.
Something had to be done to keep people out, and yet Jude sympathized with the homeless. They needed a place to go, and, like the woman she’d met the other day had said, shelters were overflowing.
The street was clogged with patrol cars, many parked at angles to deliberately hinder traffic. Uriah pulled the unmarked car to the curb a block away. He turned the engine off, and they grabbed Maglites from the glove box.
Jude didn’t mind walking. It meant they could approach the house in the darkness, unnoticed, just two people in a mix of bystanders. The stealth mode also provided an opportunity to watch the crowd, which was small due to the hour. By tomorrow, the streets would be impassable, even on foot.
As expected, their path was dark, barely illuminated by a few porch lights from occupied houses, either lit to keep the criminals away or turned on by occupants in an attempt to figure out what was going on outside. Jude and Uriah had been called to the scene early in the processing, and the low conversation she managed to catch along the way was mostly whispered questions, people wondering what was happening, nothing about a murder. The word wasn’t out yet.
“They should tear that place down,” someone said.
“They should tear the whole neighborhood down,” came a reply.
The house was what Jude expected. Charred wood a person could smell if the wind was out of the right direction. A roof that seemed to have been broken off by a giant.
Burnt wood wasn’t the only odor.
“Wow.” Uriah put a fist to his face.
Excrement. With no water or electricity, squatters were known to use areas of abandoned houses as toilets.
“More than one coroner van,” Jude noted. Which meant more than one body. BCA—Bureau of Criminal Apprehension—was already on site. Cops were everywhere, some standing with hands on hips, watching the growing crowd, some moving through that crowd with pen and paper in hand, taking names, phone numbers, and statements. Yellow crime-scene tape had been strung, and there were already plastic evidence cards littering the yard and sidewalk leading to the door.
Jude was impressed by the rapid response and containment of the area, especially considering the late hour, when crime-scene personnel were at a minimum. Portable generators hummed and electrical cords wound through glassless windows, some of those windows bright with light and others faint, hinting of activity deeper within the structure.
There was no need to pull out their badges. One of the cops watching the perimeter nodded grimly, giving them silent permission to enter. He seemed about to say something, glanced toward the crowd, then pressed his lips together, not willing to risk being overheard. From somewhere within the throng of bystanders, a camera phone flashed, capturing their arrival. Tomorrow, or maybe later that night, the cop’s grim expression would hit social media.
Jude and Uriah ducked under the tape, both thumbing on their flashlights, and moved slowly up the sidewalk, careful of their steps.
Even with the warning Uriah had been given over the phone, Jude wasn’t prepared for what served as a greeting to all who entered the structure. Intestines strung across the open doorway.
“I guess we found at least one source of the odor,” Uriah said in a low voice.
“Human?” Jude asked, knowing they probably were.
“What the hell is going on in this damn city?” he asked.
Had the loss of their governor under such horrible circumstances had a ripple effect? He’d been replaced, the gubernatorial vacancy filled by the lieutenant governor, but both Saint Paul and Minneapolis were still reeling from the events that led to his death. Had his dark deception and sick crimes against young women created a tipping point that gave residents the sense that nobody was in charge and chaos was the rule? If a governor could kill and murder, why couldn’t everybody else? But maybe Jude was giving her father too much credit. Maybe she was making this too personal.
“Over here.” The shout came from Dominique Valentine, head of the recently established task force. Unlike Jude and Uriah, who wore jeans, Valentine was dressed in a suit and tie, along with a long dark coat and shiny black shoes. Old-school detective attire. A couple of women who ran a crime podcast (did everybody have a podcast today?) claimed all male detectives were handsome. He would probably set their hearts racing, with his dark skin and brown eyes and easy smile. He’d been hired to replace Grant Vang, Jude’s former partner, now in prison. Valentine was a welcome addition and had come highly recommended. She suspected the Chicago PD had hated losing him.
“How many victims?” Uriah asked.
“So far, five.”
She and Uriah looked at each other. Professor Masucci had said the next victims would number five. They followed Valentine inside.
“It’s a maze.” He kept his flashlight aimed at the floor and out of their eyes.
“Who called it in?” Uriah asked.
“One of the squatters who’s been living here off and on. Just a kid, probably not old enough to be on her own. I took her statement, but she was too shaken up for me to get much info.” He glanced at Jude. “Maybe you’d have more luck.”
“I can try.”
“I’ll show you the scene. Like I warned you over the phone, it’s bad.” It was too dark to read his expression, but there was no need. His words laid it out. “I left Chicago to get away from the violence, but this is the worst thing I’ve ever seen.” They stepped over a pile of trash. “The victims were living in the basement. Probably been squatting there a long time.”
“Drug related?” Jude asked, una
ble to keep a little bit of hope from her voice. There was always relief, from citizens and cops alike, when kills were drug related. Not that those deaths didn’t carry as much sorrow and distress, but there was a reason behind them, as unsavory as that reason was. Bad people doing bad things, including killing one another.
“You have to see it.” Valentine turned and continued leading the way. “Watch your step.”
Some areas of the floor were scorched, and the occasional board shifted and bounced, indicative of a structural problem.
“This place should have been condemned,” Uriah said.
The odor detected near the front door was stronger now. More than once, their progress was interrupted by men and women in uniform, subtly fleeing the scene, hands to mouths, jostling their way through in a panic to exit the building.
“Don’t throw up in here,” Valentine warned an officer as she paused long enough to gag. With watering eyes and a hand pressed to her mouth, she continued down the hall.
Jude sensed they were nearing their goal when Valentine stopped at a basement door and stepped aside. From somewhere in the bowels of the building, a generator was struggling, the plodding, uneven engine creating a visual confusion of flickering lights on the stairwell. Keeping her flashlight trained at her feet, Jude went down the steps first, with Uriah and Valentine behind her.
It didn’t really look like a basement, certainly not the kind of basement she’d spent too much time in. This was large and finished, with drywall, a hardwood floor, big-screen TV, bar to one side, leather couches. A lot of sports had probably been viewed here. Along with the seating were two bedrooms and what had once been a spalike bathroom with a Jacuzzi, now someone’s bed, with a pillow and blanket. It was the kind of space you might expect to find in an upscale house in this part of town. And the perfect place for squatters. Home sweet home, without the water and electricity.
It looked like the current occupants had brought in items scavenged from the rest of the house, making the area cozy with oriental rugs, candles, stacks of books. One section off to the side had been set up as a kitchen, with a dining table and pots and pans. Cans of Sterno and a camping stove told the rest of that story.
It had been pretty nice, all things considered. It was still pretty nice. Except for the blood, the gore, the violence of the scene, and the words painted in blood on one wall:
All I seek is already within me.
A common affirmation. In a situation such as this, the innocent words became a sinister and narcissistic statement of self-worth and self-adulation. This is my right.
Three women and two men, four of them with lamp cords around their necks, three with their hands bound behind them. The women were nude, their bodies covered in blood and stab wounds. It wasn’t hard to see where the intestines had come from.
“They were tortured,” Jude said softly. “This is not the same MO.”
A few crime-scene techs were present to collect evidence, but Jude guessed that, like the cops, others hadn’t been able to take it. The lack of windows made it even worse. There was no way to let in air.
As if reading her mind, Valentine said, “We’re supposed to get purifiers down here soon. Right now, nobody can last long. For more than one reason, but the smell . . .” He pressed the back of his hand to his face. He still stood near the bottom of the stairs, seeming unwilling to step into the heart of the scene.
She felt bad that he’d left the Windy City for this. Not a good trade.
Someone in a respirator jumped to his feet, turned, and hurried past them. Near a wall, a young female officer stood with her face in her hands, silently sobbing. She was young. Maybe fairly new.
They just needed time to adjust to the horror. People were adaptable. Their brains could shift and change and tolerate the situation. It would be okay. They would be okay.
Life and death.
This was what they dealt with. It was their job. But evil . . . The evil should never be accepted. “We’ll find the people who did this,” she said. “That’s what we need to focus on right now.”
Her words had some impact, and seemed to shore up the remaining officers, detectives, and specialists on the scene. Remove yourself from your own misery, lest it consume you. That was what she’d learned during those years in darkness.
Uriah inched forward, responding to Jude’s words as if she were the head of Homicide and not him.
“The body, in any state, is a thing of beauty,” Jude whispered, crouching beside one of the dead women. “Even now.” Someone handed her a pair of latex gloves. Without taking her eyes off the victim, she said, “Even in such deep repose.” She snapped on the gloves. “Nothing can touch them anymore. Nothing can cause them any more pain. We are here to honor them, serve them, help them.”
She felt Uriah’s presence beside her. “Throat sliced,” she whispered in words meant only for him. “You see that, don’t you?” She glanced around, then back to the woman in front of her. “All of them.” Otherwise, as previously noted, not the same MO. None of the past victims had been violated like this. But five bodies. They couldn’t ignore that number.
“I do.” He didn’t join her, but instead whispered in a voice laced with despair, “What kind of monsters are we dealing with? These people are hardly more than kids.”
She pulled herself away from the body to stand next to Uriah. Right now, he needed her more than the woman on the floor did. “It’s okay.”
“It’s sure as hell not okay.”
“The violence, this violence, is over. The pain is over for them.”
“I don’t know how you can find that reassuring. They’re dead.” He looked at her with angry eyes. “Are you saying we’re all better off dead?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant. Death is better than life.” He scanned the room. “You might be right.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she repeated.
“Really?”
“No.”
“Some honesty would be welcome.”
“I’m always honest.”
“I’m not sure about that.” His eyes narrowed; he’d contemplated her mental state many times before. “I think you’re doing what you have to do to survive,” he said. “And if that means thinking dead bodies are lovely, then . . .”
As others came and went from the scene, unable to stomach it for long, Jude and Uriah remained. When the medical examiner arrived, they pointed out various clues, from size and depth of wounds to the force behind many of those wounds.
“Spree killing,” Jude said. “Done for fun.”
“The sliced throats look the same as the theater murders,” Uriah said. “That’s all I know.”
His words and dismissive attitude hurt, but she also understood he was dealing with his own pain. He felt responsible for this, and he felt responsible for his wife’s death. It was a lot for him to carry.
Uriah remained in the basement while Valentine led Jude upstairs to talk to the girl who’d found the bodies. In a room set up as the command center, the young woman sat in a chair, a blanket around her shoulders, trying to drink from a cup that kept knocking against her teeth. She looked about fourteen, probably a runaway, with dirt embedded under her nails, and hair that hadn’t been washed in a long time. Valentine introduced them, then left them alone together. Jude talked to her softly, mostly reassuring her. The girl hadn’t seen anything. Hadn’t heard anything. Just arrived at the house to find the carnage.
“Do you have anywhere to go?” Jude asked when she was convinced she’d get nothing else out of her.
She shook her head. “I want to go home.”
“Where’s home?”
“South Dakota.”
“We’ll help make that happen.”
Jude found a female officer. “I think we have a runaway. Take her downtown, feed her, have a detective interview her in an interrogation room, then see if you can get a relative’s phone number. Hopefully someone can come and
pick her up, but let them know we’d like her kept in town a few days.”
The officer nodded and Jude caught up with Uriah, who was preparing to leave. Outside, Jude checked her phone and was surprised to see three hours had passed. It was still dark, but birds were waking up and reporters continued to wait, dressed in winter jackets and knit caps. The previous day had been warm, but fall nights in the city could be frigid. A camera was shoved in Jude’s and Uriah’s faces, and questions were shouted.
“Press conference in the morning,” Uriah said, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Here?” someone asked.
“We’ll let you know.”
Jude looked for her bike, then remembered she’d come with Uriah. On the way to the car, Uriah said, “I think I’m going to have to burn these clothes. This smell is never coming out.”
She understood the scent of his clothing wasn’t what he was really thinking about. “The trick is to not let it break you,” she said once they were in the car and Uriah was easing the vehicle from the curb.
“Sorry I was abrupt earlier. Not making excuses, but what we saw back there will be with me for the rest of my life.”
She’d told him everything would be okay, but she understood what he meant. It was impossible to look at the world in the same way once you’d witnessed such evil. Every crime and every crime scene imprinted your psyche with a new sort of blackness. “I’m not saying forget. I’m saying don’t let the weight of it get you.”
“Is that how you did it? How you do it? How you made it through?”
Past and present. It was the first time he’d asked such a direct question about her years of torture. “I don’t forget. I don’t try to forget, because when you forget, it comes back at inopportune times. When you’re experiencing life. But if you never forget, it can’t break you.”
“You really never try to erase it from your mind? Pretend the bad things didn’t happen?”
“Never.”
He took a sharp turn. “Coffee.” He pulled up to the drive-thru and placed an order for two. Jude paid, and they were back on the road in less than five minutes. She took a sip of hot liquid. “Drop me at my motorcycle,” she said. “I’m going to go home to shower and change. I’ll meet you at the office. I think we need to talk to the math professor again.”