The Body Counter

by Anne Frasier

  And one question directed at Jude.

  “I’ve been told you recently purchased the house where you were held captive,” a reporter said. “Is that true?”

  The sound of the world dropped as Jude stared out at the expectation in front of her. In her mind, she stammered and searched for a reply. Beside her, she felt Uriah bristle and knew the newsperson was about to be chewed out. Jude stepped closer to the cluster of mics and said, “That has nothing to do with this case.”

  The reporter didn’t give up. “Is it true?”

  “Next.” Jude pointed to a familiar face, someone who asked an on-point question. Jude replied. She was still rattled, though, and while her attention was focused on the reporter, someone outside her field of vision shouted.

  “Murderer!”

  A fraction of a second later, Jude felt something strike her neck. She staggered and caught herself as sticky red liquid bloomed on the front of her white T-shirt. People screamed. Jude and Uriah dropped to the sidewalk as Valentine pulled Ortega to safety.

  Jude examined her bloody hand. The color didn’t look right. Next to her on the concrete was a broken water balloon that had been filled with what Jude now realized was probably red dye and corn syrup.

  Uriah seemed to grasp what had happened at the same time Jude did.

  He sprang to his feet and dove headlong into the chaos of the screaming, dispersing crowd, running and weaving, his jacket flying behind him. Jude raced after him, the mass of humans parting in front of her, people with hands to their mouths as they watched the scene play out. Others held phones high to capture the moment.

  As Jude cut through the throng, she caught a glimpse of Uriah several yards ahead. Like a boat moving through water, he left a wake of shifting people behind him. She increased her speed until she was close enough to see him tackle someone to the ground.

  When she caught up, Uriah was lifting a skinny white guy to his feet by the back of his shirt. Young. Maybe seventeen or eighteen. Thin arms, sunken cheeks, dark circles under his eyes. Stringy yellow hair, about shoulder length.

  “You’re choking him,” Jude said. “Let him go.”

  At first Uriah seemed unwilling to comply, but he finally gave the guy a shove and released him. The kid staggered, caught himself. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.” He pointed to Jude’s neck and shirt.

  Cops arrived. The suspect was handcuffed and led away. As Jude and Uriah walked back through the crowd, both breathing hard, a woman offered Jude a handful of tissues. “Here, honey.” Jude accepted them and wiped at her face and neck.

  They returned to the press conference area. Uriah, disheveled and still breathless, briefly explained that no one was in danger. “But just in case, let’s call this a wrap and catch up later.”

  The reporters, the ones who’d stuck around, didn’t argue. Microphones were dismantled and power cords were wound around elbows.

  Inside Headquarters, Jude went straight to the restroom and tugged her white T-shirt over her head. Standing in a bra and jeans, she scrubbed and rinsed the fabric using liquid soap from the dispenser. The red wasn’t giving up very easily. She placed the dripping shirt on the side of the sink, bent over, stuck her head under the faucet, soaped her hair, washed it, and was blindly reaching for paper towels when several were shoved into her hand. She rubbed them over her hair and straightened to see Vivian Ortega leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

  “That was quite some drama out there.” The chief pushed herself away from the wall with one shoulder, squeezed the excess water out of Jude’s shirt, and stuck the fabric under the automatic dryer. “I like the pink hair. Not sure how that’s going to go with our dress code, but considering the circumstances, I think we can look the other way.”

  Funny she would mention dress code. Or maybe she’d meant to be funny, since Ortega had to be aware of complaints about her own clothing.

  The dryer was high powered, and within five minutes the shirt was damp but not soaking. Jude slipped her arms in the sleeves, then stuck her thumb in the collar and pulled the neck hole over her head.

  Ortega was eyeing her closely, lips pressed together. The reporter’s question was probably the first she’d heard about Jude’s purchase of the house, and Jude braced herself for disapproval. But Ortega’s words surprised her. “I haven’t come right out and said this to anyone but my husband,” she said. “I’ve hesitated for fear my words will just sound like someone else who wants reassurance from you, but I’m terribly sorry about your abduction. More than that, I’m sorry we didn’t find you, and I’m sorry you had no one but yourself to depend on. I’m sorry you were so alone, and I’m sorry we let you down.” Her eyes glistened, and Jude hoped she wasn’t going to full-out cry. “I don’t ever want you to feel that alone again,” Ortega said. “We’re family here. We’re a team. We look out for one another.”

  Jude tried to remain unaffected by Ortega’s words while giving her an honest response. “The truth is, we’re all alone.” She needed to escape this conversation and the open-wound rawness of it.

  Ortega got a pained look on her face. “That’s not true. I will always be here for my detectives. Always. Even when I’m at home.”

  Jude played that scene in her head. A call to Ortega’s house would result in those sweet sounds of life. The kids. The dogs. Ortega’s caring husband. How could that possibly make Jude feel better?

  She busied herself by cleaning the paper towels off the sink and throwing them away. Her hands were shaking. Way too much brittle emotion in the air. She was rescued by a text from Uriah telling her she was needed downstairs.

  Balloon boy is in an interrogation room.

  Thank God. Jude told Ortega she had to go. Once out of the restroom, she wanted to run, leave the building, race down the street to anywhere that wasn’t here. Instead, she caught up with Uriah.

  “Name is Blaine Michaels,” said the officer who’d booked him. “And he’s got a record.” She handed Jude a clipboard with the boy’s details.

  “Eighteen,” Jude told Uriah as he opened the door to the interrogation room. She noted with relief that her hands were now steady even though her heart was still pounding.

  Inside, Michaels was slumped in a chair in a pathetic attempt to look tough, eyes downcast, a glass of water in front of him. In the center of the windowless room was a rectangular table. Jude sat across from their new friend, and Uriah chose to create a more intimidating presence by standing at the end of the table, two feet from the young man.

  Before they began their questioning, Michaels said again, “Wasn’t me.” He glanced up at Uriah, then back down, avoiding prolonged eye contact. He spent the next five minutes denying his involvement, but finally gave up when he saw they weren’t going to back down.

  “Somebody on the street said they’d pay me to throw the balloon at you,” he finally admitted, staring at his hands. “That’s what I meant when I said it wasn’t me.”

  Struggling not to let the restroom meeting with Ortega distract her, Jude forced herself to focus. “By pay, you mean pay in drugs?” she asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Knowing the kind of payment gives us a better grasp of your motivation,” she explained. “People do a lot of things for money. But drugs to a drug addict . . . Well . . . people will do almost anything for a fix.”

  He wiped the back of his hand against his nose. “Not an addict.” His black T-shirt, with the name of a band Jude didn’t recognize, was soaked with sweat. He was in need of a fix right now. Her next thought: This is somebody’s child.

  “Believe it or not, I’m more sympathetic to an addict than just an opportunistic criminal,” Jude said.

  “What are you addicted to?” Uriah asked.

  Michaels chewed his lip and shook a leg up and down before finally muttering, “Heroin.”

  Jude pushed the glass closer to him, saying, “I’m sorry. That’s a tough road.” She leaned back in her chair. “What did you mean by the word
you shouted? ‘Murderer’? Was that directed at me? Or someone else?”

  “I don’t know what it means.” Head tipped to the side like some bird trying to sleep, he shrugged. “I was just told to say it. Shout it, throw the balloon at you, then run to meet the guy who was going to pay me.”

  Uriah pulled out his phone and relayed instructions for officers to check out the area where Michaels had been brought down.

  “He probably never planned to pay you,” Jude said. “You know that, right?”

  “Maybe. But maybe he would. And I thought it was harmless.” He glanced at her hair and stained shirt, then away.

  “We need a description.”

  He gave it to them while Uriah took notes.

  “He was maybe twenty-eight? Thirty? Not sure.”

  “White?” Jude asked.

  “Yeah. Mustache. Curly brown hair that I’m pretty sure was a wig.” He pointed to Uriah. “Kinda like your hair, but longer. And a beard that mighta been fake. Looked real, but I think maybe it was a disguise. Like, I’m not even sure the mustache was real, so I don’t know how much help a description’ll be.”

  “Height?”

  He frowned.

  “Taller than me?” Uriah asked. “Shorter than me?” It was good to give them comparisons. “I’m five eleven.”

  “Maybe the same.”

  “Weight?” Jude asked.

  “It was kinda hard to tell, because he was wearing a baggy coat. I’d say average.”

  “So maybe 160.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You mentioned a baggy coat,” Uriah said. “Describe that.”

  “Like one of those canvas farm coats that are kinda yellow, kinda brown.”

  Uriah wrote it down.

  “I can’t stay here.” He clenched his hands between his legs and rocked back and forth. “I can’t stay in jail.”

  Yeah, he needed a fix. “We’ll bring in an addiction specialist,” Jude assured him. “She’s good and will get you on medication that’ll help.”

  He looked ready to cry. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  Outside in the hall, Uriah said, “What do you think? Is he telling the truth?”

  “He doesn’t have a hard-core record. A few minor drug busts, that’s all. I’d say we let him go, but I’d also like to see him in a program.”

  “You’re being too soft on him. He assaulted an officer of the law.”

  “And that’s a serious offense. He did something stupid. I want to give him a break. He might not learn anything, he might not change, but he’s so young, Uriah. And he should have more than an addiction specialist. If he’s addicted to heroin, he’s going to need to go through medical detox.”

  Hands on his waist, he gave it some thought before finally agreeing. “He could actually be in more danger if we release him.”

  “We don’t know who was behind this. You’re assuming it has something to do with the recent murders, when in fact it might have everything to do with my killing my father. Whoever hired him could be harmless. And that person is certainly a coward. And I don’t think we want to waste much more time on this kid when we’ve got a serious case to solve.”

  “Let’s see if there’s an opening in a rehab center out of town,” Uriah said. “I’ll have someone look into getting him in a place where he can live for at least two weeks. Then we can reevaluate.”

  Jude returned to the kid and explained the plan.

  “You’re going to release me?”

  “If you agree to go into a program.”

  “I don’t have health insurance.”

  “We can get you set up with something state funded.”

  He began crying for real. She didn’t know if it was out of relief from not having to go to jail, a reaction to her compassion, or desperation for a fix.

  Outside the interrogation room, she and Uriah made plans to find Professor Masucci.

  CHAPTER 23

  Jude flashed her badge at the young man raking leaves in front of the two-up-two-down stucco apartment building. It was late afternoon, a few hours after she’d left Blaine Michaels in the hands of a social worker who planned to get him into detox. “We’re looking for Professor Masucci.” She and Uriah had gotten no response from the call box on the building. “Have you seen him today?”

  The kid shifted nervously from foot to foot. He was shirtless even though the day wasn’t warm enough. Had a bit of California surfer to him. Blond, blue eyes. Smelled of pot. Jude didn’t care.

  “Probably on campus. That’s where he usually is.”

  “You a student?” Uriah asked.

  “Yeah. Everybody knows Professor Masucci. Because he’s weird. And some kids make fun of him and even tease him. Not me.” He rushed to make that clear, which left Jude to question his denial. She guessed he was lying, guessed he was one of the people doing the teasing. “He walks around campus most of the day,” the young man said. “I’ve heard he thinks he still works there.”

  “Wait. What?” Jude said. “He doesn’t work there?”

  “Nope.”

  So the article she’d read had been correct.

  “He was tossed out of a lecture hall when he tried to take the podium.” He stifled a laugh. “What is it about math that makes people lose it?” His eyes lit up and he pointed at the badge he could no longer see inside Jude’s jacket. “Oh, hey! That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Those murders. Oh, man. I could see him going totally off the rails and doing something like that.”

  “Let me make this clear,” Jude said. “The professor is in no way a suspect. We just need to talk to him.”

  “Oh, sure, sure. Okay. Sorry, man.” He started raking again, faster now, head down.

  Jude and Uriah looked at each other, eyebrows raised, and left, next stop the university located two miles away. Once there, they drove though the old part of campus, found a parking spot, and walked to the math department, located in a building made of red sandstone.

  The massive structure had a clay-tile roof and copper eaves, along with the requisite ivy flanking a set of impressive steps leading to massive wooden doors fit for a castle. It was like a movie set. Students strolled leisurely to their next class, books tucked under an arm, and it almost made Jude want to go back to school. A glance at Uriah told her he wasn’t having the same nostalgic thoughts. He was moving fast, as if eager to get the visit over with, perspiration glistening at his hairline. There were many colleges in the Twin Cities, but she wondered if this was where his wife had gone.

  The head of the math department was in; they were escorted to her office, where they loosely explained the reason for their visit.

  “Do you think he could be a danger to students?” The woman fiddled nervously with a necklace that looked like it was made of red pearls. She was tall, probably in her sixties, with dark-brown hair and a demeanor that came from years of living within the insular world of academia. “I don’t know if you’re aware of his history, but he lost his job here several years ago,” she said from across an ornate desk that echoed the period of the building, with its marble floors, dark woodwork, and ceilings that went on forever. “He had a mental breakdown, and the university just allows him to wander around the campus. We thought he was harmless, and being here gives him a sense of purpose. He was a good professor. Most of the students like him. They talk to him, address him with respect, give him food. Sometimes he sits in on classes, and helps students in lab. If someone is having a problem understanding the curriculum, he’s there for them.” The worry lines between her eyes deepened. “Nobody ever thought he was dangerous. But I’ll have to admit, there’s been talk. You know. With all the bad things going on today, we don’t want to scare off potential undergraduates.” She lowered her voice. “We’ve considered banning him.”

  Uriah shifted uncomfortably in his leather chair, and Jude leaned forward, elbows to knees.

  “He’s not a suspect,” Jude assured her. The last thing she wanted was to cause tr
ouble for the professor. Not a good message to send to anyone trying to reach out to them. “We’d appreciate your not sharing this information,” she said, “but we think he might be of help with a case.”

  “He had a life once, you know,” the woman said. “A wife. Kids. One day he just snapped. He started throwing books and shouting at the students, telling them to run. And he never came back from that. As far as I know, he’s on medication that keeps him level, but he’s never been the same. It’s a sad thing for students and colleagues to have witnessed.”

  She looked up at the industrial clock on the wall and told them where they might find him. They left their cards and went through their typical spiel. “Let us know if you think of anything or see anything unusual,” Jude said. Then they were back outside and Uriah was heaving an obvious sigh of relief.

  As they walked, he rolled his shoulders. “This weather.”

  “I know.” She’d hardly even noticed, but now she saw it was another perfect fall day.

  “I almost lost it here myself a few months back,” Uriah confessed as they continued side by side.

  Off in the distance, someone shouted to a friend and girls laughed.

  “My wife was going to school at the U when she committed suicide. Not long ago, I found out she was having an affair with her philosophy professor. So I came here one day.” He looked surprised by his own words of admission. “I don’t know what I had in mind.”

  They’d gone to another place that caused him pain. But there would always be reminders. There was no escaping them.

  “I think at the very least, I’d planned to beat the shit out of him,” Uriah said. “But when I was face to face with the bastard, I couldn’t do it. I realized he wasn’t the one who’d done wrong. It was me. I wasn’t there for her.”

  “We’re all responsible for ourselves,” Jude pointed out.

  “That’s easy to say, but I might have been able to help if I’d known she was suffering. This job . . . It swallows you whole. It’s not good for relationships.”