Beneath a Weeping Sky rcc-3

by Frank Zafiro

  Renee shrugged. “Maybe. Before computers, the networks were people-based. If I didn’t have this here,” she tapped her monitor again, “then I’d have to know a guy at the Seattle PI. I’d make a phone call and he’d get back to me.”

  “Still, it wouldn’t be as fast.”

  “Probably not. It is pretty amazing.” She leaned back in her chair and looked at Tower. “But what’s more interesting is the date on that obituary.”

  “Let me guess,” Tower said. “She died around the beginning of March this year.”

  “February 27,” Renee reported. “Which, coincidentally, was around a week before — ”

  “Before Heather Torin was attacked,” Tower finished.

  “Exactly,” Renee said. “And the death of a mother, particularly one that he likely had issues with would definitely qualify as a trigger.”

  “So the death of his mother sets him off,” Tower said, theorizing. “Then he manages to control it again, holding it together for at least another month. But maybe he’s acting hinky or something, because the girlfriend dumps him. And that pushes him over the edge.”

  “With the pressure of the mother’s death behind it, I think that’d do it.”

  Tower reached out and rested his hand on Renee’s shoulder. He gave her a squeeze. “Renee, you are magnificent.”

  “I know,” she said.

  Tower turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Men Only,” Tower said. “Sealed file or not, I want to have a chat with Mr. Jeffrey Goodkind.”

  0956 hours

  Katie pulled up in front of her house and parked her Jeep. She cast a look at the dark red brick of the little home, enjoying the comforting sensation that the familiar sight gave her.

  “Be it ever so humble,” she whispered sleepily. Emotion welled up in her chest. Small prickles of tears stung her eyes. Surprised at her own emotion, she turned off the ignition and wiped away the beginnings of tears.

  I’m just tired. Tired and glad to be home.

  She exited the Jeep, and walked around to the rear. Exhausted from working all night and now with a belly full of breakfast, the task of hauling in her luggage seemed herculean in nature. She considered leaving it for later, but opened the back hatch of the Jeep, anyway. She gathered up all of the luggage, setting it on the damp asphalt of the street while she closed and locked the hatch. Then she trapped one of the smaller bags beneath her armpit, took a bag in each hand and made her way to the front door.

  Katie remembered what Chisolm told her at the hotel and again at breakfast.

  “Maybe this guy’s gone and maybe he isn’t,” the veteran officer said. “But you need to keep your guard up.”

  Katie didn’t want to admit to anyone that while she resented the protective measures while they had been in place, she suddenly felt a sense of vulnerability now that they were removed. That fact, in turn, made her a little bit angry at herself. How did it make sense for her to complain about something on the one hand, but then be glad for it at the same time? And then be mad about both?

  Don’t try to understand everything, Katie.

  Chisolm didn’t seem to have any difficulty understanding the paradox. He gave her a reassuring pat on the hand at the breakfast table. “You’ll be fine,” he told her. “You’re a warrior.”

  That was another instance in which she’d felt emotion welling up inside her, unexpected, uncontrolled. Having the consummate warrior tell her that he looked at her as a peer gave Katie a greater sense of satisfaction and accomplishment than anything her bosses could have bestowed upon her. Respect was hard enough to get from fellow cops. Throw in being female and it got to be about three times as hard. But she had Thomas Chisolm’s respect, and you didn’t get any higher than that.

  “Thanks,” was all she’d been able to manage at the diner table, but she supposed that there really wasn’t anything more that needed saying.

  At her front door, she set down the bag in her right hand and unlocked the door. As she swung open the front door, the familiar smell of her home washed over her.

  Katie smiled and stepped inside. She needed a shower and then a good day’s sleep, but she was home.

  0957 hours

  He watched her step through the front door of her house. Excitement buzzed through his limbs like an electric current.

  “Wait,” he whispered, shifting his aching erection to one side.

  She worked all night. She just had sex, then ate breakfast. It only made sense that she’d be going to bed. So he’d wait a few minutes. Let her settle in. Doze off. He’d catch her still half-asleep, so that she would wonder if the cold of his knife against her throat and him thrusting inside her was real or only just a nightmare.

  And then she’d find out.

  “Wait,” he whispered again. “Just a little while.”

  1008 hours

  Tower flashed his badge at the store manager. “I’m looking for Jeffrey Goodkind,” he said.

  The manager, a tall, effete man that reminded Tower more of a mortician than a suit salesman, leaned forward to inspect Tower’s badge and identification. Satisfied, he replied, “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Goodkind is not at work today.”

  “When does he work again?”

  “He was scheduled to work today, but he has not yet arrived.”

  Tower’s eyes narrowed. “Did he call in sick?”

  “No.”

  “He just didn’t show?”

  The manager nodded. “Yes.”

  “Is that normal for him? To just not show up?”

  “No,” the manager conceded, then shrugged, “although, he has been acting strangely of late.”

  Tower raised his fingers to his face and rubbed his chin. After a moment, he realized that he was mimicking one of Browning’s habits. Dropping his fingers, he asked, “Strange in what way?”

  The manager shrugged. “He has just seemed a bit pre-occupied. Not as attentive to his work.”

  “Do you know what’s been going on in his life?”

  The manager’s eyebrows shot up in horror. “Oh, no. Jeffrey is quite private and I would never think to pry.”

  Tower suppressed a sigh. Then he asked, “Does he have a locker or a work station?”

  “Not really. He has his own drawer at the salesmen’s desk, though.”

  “I’d like to see that, please.”

  The manager hesitated. “Do you have a search warrant?”

  “Do I need one?” Tower shot back.

  The manager pressed his lips together, considering. Then he said, “No, I suppose not. Right this way.”

  He turned and walked toward the rear of the store. Tower followed. As they passed the last rack of suits, a series of photographs lined the hallway that led to the back room where the manager was headed. Large block letters proudly pronounced, “OUR SALES TEAM IS HERE TO SERVE YOU!”

  Tower slowed, his eyes passing over each photograph. When he reached the one labeled “Jeffrey Goodkind, since 1993,” he stopped.

  A photograph of Mr. Every Other White Guy stared out at him from inside the frame, a practiced smile on his lips.

  And at that moment, Tower knew for sure.

  1011 hours

  The pressure was too great. He couldn’t wait any more.

  Staring at that hateful little brick house, his hands trembled. The pungent smell of his own sweat filled the cab of his car. He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable, trying to force himself to wait a few more minutes.

  He glanced down at the passenger seat. The silver blade of the Buck knife radiated a cold light back at him.

  The time for waiting is over.

  Pick up the knife.

  Go inside. Lay the whammo on that arrogant bitch. Slice her. Gut her.

  Kill Katie. Kill that cunt.

  Kill Cora.

  He gave a short shake of his head, trying to clear his mind. He had to be careful. He couldn’t let his rage get in the way. He couldn’t l
et his mother turn his victory into another defeat by taking away what he most wanted.

  Fear.

  Control.

  Pain.

  Vengeance.

  Somewhere deep inside the icy core of his soul, he felt a small flickering warmth spring to life. Katie was the only one who had thwarted him since he had become a real man. She was the only one who had defied him. Since that night on Mona Street, he’d heard his father’s mocking laughter in every voice. Worse yet, he’d seen his mother’s hard features in every line of Katie’s face. Just like his mother had done when she attacked him and tore away at his sexual power, Katie’s defiance and her escape robbed him of his manhood. It stripped him of what he’d become.

  She had to pay.

  His mouth curled into a cold smile. He’d send Katie to hell, where she belonged. Right next to his mother.

  “I’m coming,” he whispered, and got out of the car.

  1017 hours

  “Adam-254, Adam-251?”

  Gio reached for the microphone. “Fifty-four, go ahead.”

  “Assist the detective. Contact Ida-409 at the west end of Corbin Park.”

  Gio clicked the mike, signaling he copied the call. A second click followed, presumably from Ridgeway. Gio was close to the park and drove there in a matter of a couple of minutes. As he turned off Post and into the wide lanes at the west end of the park, he was surprised to see Ridgeway already there. He pulled his car alongside.

  “You got here quick,” he said.

  Ridgeway grunted back.

  “Ida-409?” he asked Ridgeway. “That’s Tower, right?”

  Ridgeway nodded, but didn’t say a word.

  Gio suppressed a sigh. Instead he said, “You take an oath of silence or something?”

  “No,” Ridgeway answered, “but sometimes I wish you would.”

  “What’s up, Grumpy Gus?”

  Ridgeway’s bleary-eyed stare answered Gio’s question.

  “Nothing’s up,” the veteran officer said through gritted teeth. “I’m just tired.”

  Gio nodded an apology. Ridgeway accepted it wordlessly and leaned his head back against the headrest.

  It was at times like this Gio missed their fallen comrade, Karl Winter the most. Winter knew how to listen, especially to Ridgeway.

  The best he could do was sit next to him and know when to remain silent.

  1020 hours

  He strode down the alley like he owned it.

  He did own it.

  He was in control.

  At her small back gate, he unlatched the clasp and slipped into the yard as quietly as he could. He clutched the Buck knife in his right hand, the blade hidden by the cuff of his white shirt. The weight of the cool metal reassured him.

  Confident, he walked to her back door. At the door, he peered through the small glass panes into the house.

  No activity.

  He strained his ears, listening for movement.

  The patter of water and the rumbling whine of plumbing filtered toward him. He glanced at the marbled, frosted window a few yards to his right. Condensation formed on the outside of the window and the glass had a hazy film of steam covering it.

  She was in the shower.

  Perfect.

  Without hesitation, he drove the metal butt end of the knife into the small glass pane in the lower left corner of the back door. He was rewarded with shattering shards of glass. Flipping the knife around, he used the blade to clear out the four-by-four-inch mini-pane of any remaining glass. Then he reached through and fumbled for the lock inside.

  First the knob.

  He found the small button in the center of the doorknob. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, he twisted it until it stopped.

  Then the deadbolt.

  The larger locking mechanism was easier to find and to flip to the opposite side. A solid click sent a thrill of success through him.

  He opened the door and stepped through.

  Inside, the heavy sound of falling water from the bathroom filled the quiet of the house. He forced himself to creep cautiously toward the sound. His eyes flitted around his surroundings as he moved.

  He wondered if she brought her gun home.

  If so, where did she keep it?

  A quick look told him the kitchen counter was clear.

  Probably the bedroom, then.

  He knew he should go there first and collect it, but he was drawn to siren’s song of the falling water in the bathroom. It sounded so…vulnerable. He imagined her naked body under the shower head, water cascading down upon her. Rivulets of white, foamy soap sliding down her breasts, across her stomach. He could almost see the dark patch between her legs standing out against the lather soap and her pink skin.

  I’m going to tear you to shreds, bitch.

  I’m going to lay the whammo on you like you’ve never known. And then -

  The water came to a sudden stop. The sound of a shower curtain being drawn aside was muffled by the door between them.

  A moment of panic struck him, but he pushed it down. Quickly, he adapted his plans. It would have to be an ambush when she stepped out of the bathroom, then.

  He moved silently to the side of the bathroom door.

  He gripped his knife and waited.

  1022 hours

  Tower pulled up next to Gio’s car. The two officers looked over at him. Gio’s pleasant features were expectant. Ridgeway’s were sullen.

  “Where are we going?” Gio asked.

  Tower recited Jeffrey Goodkind’s address. “It’s about ten blocks away,” he added. “Just up the hill.”

  “What’s there?” Gio asked.

  Tower smiled. “It might be the Rainy Day Rapist.”

  He enjoyed the surprise that registered on the faces of both officers, followed by anticipation.

  “If,” Tower said, “you’re interested.”

  “Hell, yeah,” Gio said.

  Ridgeway gave Tower a resolute nod.

  “All right, then,” Tower said. “Let’s go.”

  1023 hours

  Katie scrubbed her hair with a towel, drying off. The weariness from the long night had seeped into her bones. Her muscles felt heavy and weak. The warm breakfast and now the hot shower had only made her exhaustion complete. Thoughts of flopping her head onto the pillow in her own bed and slipping into a deep sleep filled her mind.

  It felt good to be home again. To dry off with her own towel. To see her own robe hanging from the back of her own bathroom door. She imagined that she’d sleep better tonight than she had for weeks.

  Katie wrapped the towel up on her head. She reached for a second blue fluffy towel, drying off her body with long strokes. Slight stubble on her legs reminded her that she hadn’t shaved them while showering.

  Oh well. It’s not like I’m going on a date.

  Finished, she re-hung the towel on the rack. Then she put on her battered terry cloth robe and opened the door.

  1024 hours

  When the door opened, a rush of smells blasted outward, riding on the steam. Soap. Linen.

  Her.

  He trembled.

  His fist tightened around the handle of his knife.

  * * *

  As soon as she stepped through the door, she felt an eerie malevolence in the room that made her skin prickle. Before she could calculate a response or process the sensation, a figure appeared in front of her. A bare hand shot toward her throat.

  Instinctively, Katie knocked the grasping claw aside in a sweeping block with her left forearm. The collision of her fleshy muscle and his bony hand reverberated through her arm and up to her shoulder.

  “Bitch!” he snarled.

  Katie’s eyes were drawn to his face. An enraged variation on the police sketch glared back at her.

  A moment later, another attack flashed out at her. She brought her opposite forearm across to block this second attack. Something bit painfully into her arm.

  He pulled his hand back. “You like tha
t, bitch?”

  Katie gaped down at her right arm. The white terrycloth sleeve was stained bright red.

  The knife came slashing back at her in something akin to a sword stroke. She held up her hands defensively. The cool blade sliced through the flesh of several fingers, leaving an icy trail behind.

  Katie let out a cry. A moment later, warmth flooded through her fingers. Pain throbbed in her hand with each heartbeat.

  He drew back the knife to slash again, but paused a moment. He shifted the handle in his hand until the blade was pointed downward so that he could stab instead of slash. Katie stared at the silver blade tinged with her own blood. Fear raced through her body.

  “I’m going to lay the whammo on you,” he whispered hoarsely, his tone almost reverent.

  Katie met his gaze. A sheen of lust and anger coated his eyes, radiating outward. She read her own death in the black pinpricks of his pupils.

  He stabbed downward with the knife.

  Katie brought her foot up sharply, driving it into his groin with every ounce of strength she could muster. Her instep landed with a solid thunk. The force of the blow rang up her leg as far as her hip.

  As soon as the kick landed, his downward stab faltered and fell to his side. A low groan escaped his lips. He reached for his groin and sank to his knees.

  Katie sidestepped the kneeling assailant and sprinted for her bedroom. At her bedside table, she grasped the portable telephone. The receiver slipped out of her bloody hand, falling to the floor. She knelt and picked it up. With trembling, blood-soaked fingers, she punched in the numbers 9–1 — 1.

  Her heart racing, she pressed the receiver to her ear.

  One ring. Then two.

  She watched the bedroom door, her entire body trembling with adrenaline.

  Three rings.

  “Nine one one, state your emergency.”

  He burst into the room with a roar. His face was contorted in rage.

  “YOU BITCH!”

  He held the knife out in front of his body in his right hand.

  “I need police here now!” Katie screamed into the telephone.

  “What is the problem?” the calm voice on the other end of the line asked.

  He lunged forward, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set.

  Katie tossed the telephone aside. She dove onto her bed, tucking and rolling across the mattress. As she left the far side of the bed, she fell to the floor on her knees. Scrambling to her feet, she raced toward her dresser. Her service pistol rested there.