by Cade Brogan
Close Enough
to Touch
By
Cade Brogan
Close Enough to Touch © 2017 Cade Brogan
Triplicity Publishing, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events of any kind, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition – 2017
Cover Design: Triplicity Publishing, LLC
Interior Design: Triplicity Publishing, LLC
Editor: Megan Brady - Triplicity Publishing, LLC
Acknowledgements
I want to thank my incredible team of beta readers—Kay, Dana, Paula. Kathy, Laure, and Maureen. You can’t imagine how much I appreciate the time and effort each of you put into this work. I also want to thank Kay, my wife. I couldn’t ask for more than what she gives because she gives it all. And last but not least, I’d like to thank my editor, Megan Brady and my publisher, Alea Hamilton. You guys are the best!
Dedication
For my wife.
It’s a beautiful thing when your best friend is the love of your life.
Amo te, Kay.
Cast of Characters
Rylee Hayes: Homicide detective.
Buckshot: Rylee’s coonhound.
Kenzie Bigham: Church secretary. Rylee’s college girlfriend.
Abby Bigham: Kenzie’s 13-year-old daughter.
Joanna Grey: Not your average serial killer.
Rich Winters: Homicide detective. Rylee’s partner.
Gladys and Omar Hayes: Rylee’s grandparents.
Martha and Wilber Watson: Joanna’s mother and stepfather.
Pastor Mark: Kenzie’s minister and boss.
Chastity Carr: Rylee’s recent ex-girlfriend.
Sally Smith: Member of the church.
Jodi Hollis: Member of the church.
Marcus Hobbs: Person of Interest.
Dr. Benjamin Holmes: Forensic Pathologist.
Dr. Hines: Director of the botanical garden.
Mr. Calissi: Rylee’s neighbor.
Sergeant Burke: A CPD Officer
Mark Garner: Boston homicide detective.
Lou: A CPD Officer.
Chapter One
“It would be impossible for me to stop poisoning people.”
~ Anna Zwanziger
(Poisoner, 1811)
It wasn’t so unusual.
Women.
Hunting.
Joanna removed the red stabilizer.
Now, the use of blowpipes, well, she had to admit that was rare, but not to the point where anyone would consider it strange. Hunters used them in the rainforest to take down prey; monkeys and toucans, primarily. Veterinary techs used them in zoos to immobilize, vaccinate, and medicate. Much the same as zoo patients, her targets were animals confined to small spaces. Out of the ordinary, but not strange. Now, the use of poison, well, that was as common as could be, especially for serial killers of the female persuasion. She injected the deadly poison into the chamber of her syringe, using pliers to mount a hypodermic needle. With a snap, the safety cap was in place. As she slipped the tube-like weapon into a specially sewn pocket along the outside seam of her jeans, she imagined her day. There was nothing she enjoyed more than killing. It had been that way since the very first day. She flashed back to a painful memory, pushing it far away. That had nothing to do with anything, she told herself. She’d convinced herself long ago that it had been no more than a coincidence that her stepdad put his hands all over her that day. She flashed again, collecting her keys. “Get back”, she spat to the unpleasant recollection. “You have no right to spoil my day.”
***
The neighborhood was older, mixed. Apartment buildings snugged close to single-family dwellings. Mom and pop businesses squeezed in between. A few structures were condemned, but most looked well maintained. Black folk lived next to white folk; Chinese lived next to Indians; Gays lived next to straights. Muslims, well, they lived next to Christians, Buddhists, Jews, and atheists. How could this area be known for having one of the lowest crime rates? She slowed as she neared the rundown three-story building, her destination. Not the kind of place she’d ever choose to live. Not even if she lacked a penny to her name. It was, however, the kind of place that she often found her victims. She thanked God for her all-brick ranch in her all-white neighborhood. But there was always something that ruined everything. In her neighborhood, it was the house on the corner, the one with the old man and his concubine. He was raising a biracial grandkid, a girl, seven or eight. The kid was cute enough. Too bad she had to be mixed. Had she not been so young, Joanna would have chosen her as her next victim. But killing kids was different, disgusting. She’d only done it once or twice. Oh well, it wouldn’t be so long before this kid turned eighteen. God willing, she’d still be doing what she was doing. It was her contribution to the world—purifying—restoring order as God intended.
She parked in the lot across the street and turned off her engine. Her pulse raced as she locked her gaze on a particular third-floor window. She’d been watching it for days. She bit her lower lip in anticipation, knowing that her first kill since moving here was minutes away. When the bathroom light switched on, she tied her scarf and exited her vehicle. She scanned her surroundings as she made her way toward the rear entrance. As always, she was prepared to carry out her Christian duty. With a tug, the heavy fire door groaned open. She held her palm against its surface to shut it quietly. Having visited this place on several occasions, she knew it would slam, and potentially awaken the building. Unlike the guys, she didn’t kill on random impulse. Instead, each dispatch was completed with care and consideration. It was better to get to know the victim, to see how she lived, and memorize her routine, before taking her life. It was a time-consuming endeavor, but one with the payoff that she’d never been caught. She climbed the stairs—slow and soft.
One.
Two.
Three flights up.
Tug.
When the door opened without a groan, she paused. Bright red and shiny, it had been replaced since her last visit to the property. A solitary bulb dangled in the dimly lit hallway. With feather-light steps, she moved to door thirty-seven, the home of her target. She inserted her tension wrench soundlessly, glancing to the left and right before wiggling her pick into the lock. She looked both ways again as she applied torque.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
With a soft click, the last pin set.
She pushed, but not too hard.
Water. The sound of water spraying in the shower, caused her to nudge it a little more.
Light. There was only one in the tiny apartment. It beckoned her from underneath the bathroom door.
She lifted the safety cap, leaving the sharpness of the needle exposed. Her blowpipe was loaded and ready to go. She lifted it to her lips as she tiptoed close to the door. Showtime, darling, she thought as she touched the knob. Thud. The door slammed into the wall. Steam, hot steam from the shower fogged the mirror, and captured her arousal. She paused, her lips parting as she admired the silhouette behind the frosted door. Bad girl... Bad, bad girl, she told herself. You know what you deserve when you get home. She watched the door rumble down its track to the c
eramic tile.
“What the hell?” the woman shouted. “You get the fuck out of here!” Her hands flew up to her chest, leaving the rest of her cocoa-colored skin exquisitely exposed. “I’m calling the cops!”
Joanna squinted, sighting her mark. It was a vein at the base of her victim’s neck, the best location for quick delivery of the toxin.
“Hey! What are you doing?” the woman asked in a shrill voice, her eyes darting from one side to the other.
Joanna puckered, filled her lungs, and let go. “Wh—ooo—t.”
The victim’s eyes enlarged to the size of saucers as the lancet delivered its poison. “What the hell’d you do?” she choked. Her brown eyes bulged, unblinking; her nostrils flared, and she trembled uncontrollably. When her head jerked back, her mouth became a dark cavern.
“Fingers don’t work so well, huh,” Joanna commented softly as she watched her struggle to wrap her fingers around the deadly projectile. “Don’t worry; it won’t be long now.”
Gasp.
Moan.
Gurgle.
Gag.
Gulp.
The woman’s eyes glazed over as she went down, down, down. More times than not, they crumpled halfway in and halfway out of the shower. Her name was Sally D. Smith. Joanna knew because it was printed on her mailbox. She wondered what the ‘D’ stood for. Maybe, Diane, she supposed. She retrieved the sprig of bramble from her pocket and taped it to the mirror. It was her signature, her calling card. Everyone had one, some sick, some not. Some were complex, and some were straightforward. Hers was simple, but not one cop in twenty-four years, three-hundred-fifty-one dispatches, had ever figured it out. Not a surprise. They weren’t known to be the sharpest crayons in the box. She, on the other hand, was more intelligent than most. She smiled, retrieving a small pair of scissors and a specimen bottle from her inside pocket. Closure suited her. She enjoyed finishing things off. She licked her lips and moved closer.
Snip.
Collect.
Screw on the top.
Fill out the label.
April 24, 2017
Dispatch #351
Chicago, IL
With a satisfied smile, she took one last look around. All, except the sprig, was, as she’d found it. Good job, she thought. Tonight, in the darkness of her bedroom, she’d reward herself.
Chapter Two
It was Rylee’s day off, the first in almost a month. And whether Buckshot liked it or not, they were going. “Come on,” she called out. “Nothing there you need to concern yourself about.” She cocked her head, frowning. “Come on I said. Let’s go.”
The coonhound lifted his nose, made eye contact, and promptly put it back down. No doubt something died in that spot. He’d roll in that rotting pile of leaves and stink up her new truck if she didn’t move him along. “I said come on,” she barked, shaking the end of his leash, so he noticed. “Don’t make me clip this on.” He fell in step within a moment. He was a smart dog, and her third coonhound. She got him last year, just after she turned thirty-five. She got her first when she was four, a gift from her mom. Wasn’t long after that that her mom had her first breakdown. Rylee sucked in air, clearing her mind. “Come on, Buckshot.” They sped up making their way down the hill. As they rounded the bend, she caught sight of the pond she’d fished with her grandpa since she was a child. He hadn’t come with her for quite a while. Maybe next Sunday, she thought. There were lots of great fishing spots up and down the coast of Lake Michigan, with the best being right downtown. But even with the drive to the country, this one would always be her favorite one. She settled onto a rock and cast her line into the murky water. She could count on a string of bass, bluegill, and catfish by the time she finished up, around four. She’d clean ‘em, fry ‘em up, and share ‘em with her grandma and grandpa.
Rylee rubbed Buckshot’s ears at the sound of a squirrel barking in the distance. “Minding his business like you need to be minding yours,” she commented as he lay back down. She’d no more than turned back to check her line than her cell rang in her pocket. Only one reason she’d be getting a call from the precinct this early on a Sunday morning. “Got a fifteen-minute hike back to my truck,” she said, raking her hair back with her fingers, “and then just over an hour drive back to Chi-town.” She dropped her tackle back into her box. “Be there as quick as I can,” she added. “At least it’s not rush hour.” She exhaled, meeting her dog’s eye. “Come on, Buckshot.”
***
Rylee exited the expressway onto a multi-lane. Chicago, the third most populous city in the United States, with its sirens blaring, horns honking, and graffitied walls was home. She passed Chicago-Read, a state-run two-hundred-bed psychiatric hospital as she traversed the northwest side of the city. Her mouth went dry, averting her gaze from what she knew to be her mom’s room. The sound of a jackhammer returned her attention to the road. It seemed no one had a day off this Sunday morning. “You guys just finishing up?” she asked, ducking under the strip of yellow tape restricting access to the crime scene.
“Yep, just did,” the tech responded. He had what looked to be a DNA kit tucked under his arm. “Your partner’s in there,” he added, nodding toward what she assumed to be the bathroom. “Victim is too. Medical Examiner should be here by eleven to pick her up.”
“Good deal,” Rylee said, pausing to scan the entry area before making her way past the kitchen and through the living room. She came up beside her longtime partner as he shifted his position to the edge of the bathroom doorway. Rich was a good-looking guy, tall and muscled out, forty-five and African American. “Lining up a shot?” she guessed, her eyes narrowing as she looked into the room. “No blood,” she commented, scratching her head.
“You don’t see it right off,” Rich responded, looking her way. “Pure luck Jones, and O’Malley saw it at all.” He nodded downward. “Look for yourself.”
Rylee squatted down next to the body, the victim already stiffening with rigor mortis. “Good job, Jones, and O’Malley,” she said softly, noting that a solitary prick had resulted in a minuscule drop of blood. “Dart, I’m guessing,” she added as she stood up. “What’s this?” she asked, noticing a thorny twig in the upper right corner of the mirror.
Rich moved closer. “Totally missed that,” he admitted. “Course it’s way up above my eye level.” Small and high, it was a critical piece of evidence that could suggest they were looking at the work of a serial killer.
“That’s it,” Rylee responded, cocking her head, “make a tall joke while I solve a murder for ya.”
“While you solve a possible murder for me,” Rich countered. “Autopsy’s not until late tomorrow. Death could still be due to natural causes.”
“Pretty sure it’s not,” Rylee said as she positioned for a measurement and then a shot. “I think it’s a blackberry bramble,” she said, “but I could be wrong. A ‘C’ in botany can only carry a guy so far.” She gently removed the bramble from the mirror, dropped it into an evidence bag, and labeled it. Her shoulders tipped back as she took another look around, wondering if she’d be able to locate her old botany textbook. She had the sense that it was in her grandparent’s attic somewhere. “So, what do we know about her?”
“Thirty-two, last month,” Rich said. “Lives alone according to the super. He described her as a good tenant. Found her at 0915 and called 911 at 0925. Claimed the neighbor across the hall called him after the door stood open for a couple of hours. Said he came right up to check it out. He lives on the first floor.”
“Did you talk to the neighbor?” Rylee asked. She hated coming in late on a case, even if only by a couple of hours.
“No, not yet,” Rich responded, continuing. “Time of death was 0600. ICE contact’s her mom. It’s an Arizona number, a landline.” He took a breath, let it go, and met her eye. “I tried, but there was no answer.”
“I’ll call her,” Rylee offered, knowing that her partner had a difficult time telling parents
they’d lost a child. The problem started after he lost his fifteen-year-old son to gang violence. That was two years ago. Since then, she’d tried her best to do all their informing. “Any priors?” she continued.
“Reported a credit card stolen last year,” Rich answered, “but that’s all.”
Rylee nodded, still looking around. “No sign of struggle. She’d have fought back if someone came at her with a needle.”
“Yeah, probably,” Rich responded. “Unless she knew ‘em. Maybe she had someone over for a shower, and they took her by surprise.” He shook his head with his fingers on his chin. “I still think it could be natural causes though. Guess we’ll know tomorrow.”
“I tell ya, it’s not natural causes,” Rylee countered. “Look at her, young, healthy, and strong.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Rich responded.
“Whatever, whoever got her, got her quick,” Rylee continued. “She didn’t even have time to grab a towel. With one spare second, she’d have grabbed one.” She shook her head as her upper lip curled. “Sick bastard,” she muttered, “sneak up on a woman while she’s in the shower.”
“If she was murdered,” Rich said, “sick bastard is right.”
“She was, I tell ya,” Rylee responded. She had a sense about these things. Call it woman’s intuition or good police instinct. Call it whatever you want, she could feel it in her gut.
“Fish biting today?” Rich asked, changing the subject.
“They were gonna,” Rylee answered as she went under the yellow tape, stepping into the hallway. She shook her head. “You think we’re ever gonna get a full day off?” she asked with a sigh.