Rusty Nail

by J. A. Konrath

  “Check out that guy. He’s hung like an elephant.”

  “Holly—”

  “Jesus, Jack, look at it. You’re single. Grab a knife and take it home.”

  Phil Blasky poked his head out of the autopsy room, and I elbowed Holly in the ribs to shut her up.

  “Hi, Phil.”

  “Hello, Jack. Who’s your friend?”

  Holly waltzed over to him, hand outstretched. “Detective Holly Frakes. I’m a cop. Really.”

  I tried not to wince. Phil glanced at her hand, then glanced at his own, covered by a bloody latex glove.

  Holly noticed this and patted him on the shoulder instead of shaking.

  “Nice to meet you, Phil. I hear people are dying to get into this place.”

  Ouch. But Phil seemed just as entranced with Holly as everyone else she met, and he even offered a weak chuckle.

  “A pleasure to meet you too, Detective. I’ve found out some interesting things, if you’ll step into my office.”

  We followed Phil into the back room, where the body of Steve Jensen lay naked on a metal table, a block propping up his head. Beneath him was a small puddle of what I called people juice; not blood, but a pink, semiclear fluid that looked like the stuff at the bottom of the package when you bought a steak at the supermarket.

  Phil hadn’t made the Y-incision on Jensen yet, or sawed open the skull, but the body had been washed down.

  Jensen had been a trim man, muscular, with straight brown hair and tattoos covering both arms, the motif running to guns, skulls, and naked women with devil horns.

  “Average.” Holly frowned. She was looking at his joint.

  Phil missed it. “As you can see by the condition of the body, the body bears over thirty stab wounds of various sizes and depths. I can safely assume that the inquest jury will rule out suicide.”

  He chuckled again. The second chuckle I’d heard in the ten years I’d known him.

  The only place to set the coffee and donuts was on a medical tray, next to some bloody implements. I hoped the cardboard box was thick and nothing leaked through.

  “What’s wrong with his mouth?” Holly asked.

  Jensen’s cheeks were sucked in, as if he were about to blow us a kiss. His lips were shredded and resembled hamburger.

  Holly bent down for a closer view. “Looks like he’s in serious need of some Chapstick.”

  Phil grabbed onto the lower lip and pulled, revealing half a dozen brass fishhooks, skewering Jensen’s mouth closed. He picked up a scalpel and wedged it between the teeth, levering the mouth open, tearing the lips even further. He positioned the head so the overhead light could penetrate the mouth, and then used a water squirt pen that hung from the ceiling on a spiral hose to spray out the excess blood.

  It wasn’t pretty. Jensen had a puckered appearance because his tongue and inner cheeks were hooked together.

  “He was alive at the time.” Holly pointed. “See the bruises on his face? Someone shoved hooks in his mouth, then slapped him around to get them stuck.”

  Blasky put his hand on the victim’s neck.

  “I can feel some bumps in the throat. He probably swallowed, or inhaled, hooks as well.”

  I finally spoke up. “What’s the cause of death, Phil?”

  “This wound right here.” Blasky tapped a two-inch puncture on Jensen’s chest. “Thin-bladed knife, slipped between the ribs and ruptured the heart. Won’t know what exactly went wrong until I crack the chest.”

  “He was tortured.” Holly swallowed, then walked over to the corpse’s legs and peered at a stab wound. “These cuts have salt rubbed into them.”

  Phil frowned. “Kind of silly, to interrogate a man with fishhooks in his mouth. How was he supposed to talk?”

  “He wasn’t supposed to talk,” I said. “He was supposed to hurt.”

  “He hurt, all right. I ran a blood sample and did an enzyme immunoassay. His histamine levels were off the charts. This man died in agony.”

  “Why do some of the stab wounds look different?”

  “It appears that two weapons were used, a thin, double-edged blade and a thicker one with a serrated back.”

  The hunting knife that Benedict’s attacker left behind had a serrated back.

  “Must have gotten bored with the little knife, gotten something bigger,” Holly said.

  “Can you tell by the angle if the perp is right-handed or left-handed?” I asked.

  Phil picked up a stainless steel protractor and worked out some angles.

  “The big blade was wielded by a lefty. The smaller blade, by someone right-handed.”

  Holly nodded. “So the killer had a knife in each hand.”

  “Then how could he rub the salt in?” I shook my head. “No. I have a different theory.”

  “We’re all ears, Lieutenant.”

  I frowned. “I think we’ve got more than one killer.”

  CHAPTER 35

  I’D BEEN NURTURING that theory since early this morning. All evidence pointed toward a meticulous guy with a blond beard, yet a sloppy redhead was the one who attacked Herb. I hadn’t been able to reconcile it. But if there were two killers at work, everything fit.

  The Gingerbread Man’s partner had found a replacement.

  Holly gave me a funny look. “Are you sure?”

  “That’s how it looks. One of them is probably Caleb Ellison.”

  “And the other one?”

  I chewed on my other lip. “I don’t know.” I added, “Yet.”

  Phil Blasky picked up his coffee and took a sip, making happy smacking sounds.

  “You ladies are welcome to stay for the autopsy. There’s donuts.”

  That didn’t hold a lot of appeal for me, though Holly seemed thrilled at the prospect. I stared down at Jensen’s body, puzzling why he died, wondering what his link to Caleb Ellison was, and found myself focusing on his tattoos.

  In the middle of his biceps, slathered with hell imagery and the machine guns, there was a small piece of skin missing, the size of a quarter. Unlike the other wounds, this appeared to be a slice, rather than a stab.

  I looked lower, and a similar patch of skin had been cut from his forearm. The other arm had three similar marks, on the back of the hand, the triceps, and the shoulder.

  Someone cut off a few of his tattoos. And I had an inkling why.

  “Do you have an extra pair of gloves, Phil?”

  “There’s a box under the cart.”

  I pulled out a pair and tugged them on. Holly did the same, though without much enthusiasm.

  “We’re not doing a cavity search, right?” she asked.

  I ignored her, picking up Jensen’s cold right hand and spreading out the fingers, which felt like stiff rubber. I peered at the webbing, and his palm, then worked up the underside of the arm until I got to the armpit. Not finding what I sought, I did the same with the left arm. Then I scrutinized behind the ears, and the back of the neck.

  “Can we turn him over?”

  Phil nodded, munching on a donut. His chin had strawberry jelly on it—I hoped to God it was strawberry jelly.

  “On three,” I told Holly. “One, two, three.”

  I pulled. She pushed. Jensen tilted up onto his side and flopped toward me, momentum taking him off the edge of the metal table. The headrest went flying. I had to push my hip against his clammy, naked hip to keep him from falling onto the floor, splotching my Kathleen B top with people juice. How many damn outfits could I ruin this week?

  Holly tugged on his arm, sliding Jensen back into position.

  The tattoo was over his right buttock. Homemade, black ink, three letters: DDD.

  “Son of a bitch.” Holly rubbed a gloved finger over the ink. “This guy’s a Disciple.”

  “I haven’t heard of that gang.”

  “They’re from my town. The triple D boys. Detroit Devil Disciples. Operate on the East side, maybe a hundred strong. They run drugs, guns, a string of crack whores. Represent for Folks.”


  “And you know them because . . . ?”

  She offered a small, private smile. “Let’s just say I’ve crossed paths with them a few times.”

  I stared at the mark. Someone had cut off the others, and missed this one because it had been in an unobtrusive spot. Removing tattoos was symbolic, like stripping a gang-banger of his colors. Either his own gang did it because he betrayed them, or a rival gang did it to disrespect him.

  There was also a third possibility: to keep Jensen’s identity hidden.

  Mason’s search for Jensen in the National Crime Information Center records revealed a criminal record, until only a few years ago. The same for Caleb Ellison. It was highly doubtful they’d suddenly gone straight. Changing identities seemed a much better prospect.

  “I have a few contacts in Detroit.” Holly stripped off her gloves and pulled a flip phone out of her front pocket. “Want me to see what I can figure out?”

  At this point, I needed all the help I could get. “Be my guest.”

  Holly trotted off, phone in hand. I pulled off my gloves and bellied up to the big slop sink, where I spent five minutes trying to get the stain out of my blouse.

  “Jack! I got something!”

  Holly had poked her head into the autopsy room.

  “What?”

  “Steve Jensen is using another name. I described him to the guy I talked to, and he pinned down an alias. A quick look at his record, and we got a list of associates, one of them named Caleb.”

  “Caleb Ellison?”

  “No. Caleb’s using an alias too. The guy you’re looking for is a redhead, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Caleb’s last known address is here in Chicago.”

  I hurried over to Holly, the stain forgotten.

  “What’s the address?”

  Holly shook her head. “I want to go with you.”

  “Holly, dammit, this is police business.”

  “I got the information, I want to come with you.”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  I felt eyes on the back of my neck. Blasky was staring at us, munching on a cruller. I took Holly into the cooler with me.

  “Who did you call in the Detroit police to get this information?”

  She played coy. “Who said I called the Detroit police? I’m a private investigator, remember? I have plenty of contacts.”

  I pushed past her, walking out of the cooler, into the loading room. I could call the gang unit in Detroit, possibly get the same info Holly did, but I had no clue who to talk to, and no idea how long it would take.

  “Jack . . .” Holly caught up, tugged on my sleeve. “Don’t be pissed. I just want to be a part of this.”

  “You’re a civilian, Holly. I could lose my badge just for bringing you into the morgue.”

  She made a pouty face.

  “Come on, Jack. All I do is spy on cheating husbands, take pictures of fat guys trying to cheat insurance companies, and chase losers who jump bail. This is something real. Something important. Do you know how many times I heard Harry tell the story about the time he helped you nail Charles Kork?”

  I ignored her, signing out, leaving the morgue.

  “I have his address, Jack. I can back you up.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Holly. I need a warrant, cops on all the exits, the Feds want a piece; you being there could ruin the bust.”

  “Fine. I’ll get him myself.”

  She took off across the parking lot, walking at a brisk pace.

  “Dammit, Holly! Don’t make me arrest you!”

  She kept walking, but offered her opinion of my authority with a single finger.

  I jogged up to her, grabbed her shoulder, and she spun around in a blur, spreading her feet in a tiger stance—her hands in underhanded fists, one foot in front of the other, heel off the ground as if cocked to go off. Without even thinking, I stepped back and fell into a back stance, my rear foot planted behind me, both arms parallel to my front thigh.

  I tensed for her attack, but it didn’t come.

  “You want to do this on pavement?” I said.

  “I want to come with you.”

  “You can’t. The last time a civilian came with me on a bust, it became a weekly TV series.”

  The parking lot was dark, and I couldn’t read her eyes.

  “Your choice, Jack. We do it together, or I do it alone.”

  “Or I arrest you for withholding evidence and obstruction of justice.”

  “You think you can? I’m bigger, younger, more experienced, and have a farther reach.”

  “And if you lay a finger on me, you go to jail. That would mess up your wedding plans, wouldn’t it? Think, Holly. This isn’t the way.”

  I hoped she’d back down, because she was right; I probably couldn’t beat her sparring. Which meant I’d have to shoot her.

  Seconds ticked by. The night air cooled the sweat that had broken out on the back of my neck. I kept my muscles rigid, tense, fighting the adrenaline surge.

  “He lives in Ravenswood,” Holly said.

  “Where in Ravenswood?”

  She came at me, bringing her rear foot up. I lifted my arms to block, but Holly didn’t kick. She ran past.

  Holly reached the car five steps ahead of me, throwing open the door and grabbing her Vuitton carry-all. I managed to get my fingers around one handle of the bag, and Holly gripped my wrist and dropped to a knee, twisting my arm out at an angle and forcing my elbow to lock. I released the bag.

  “I’ll call you when I get there.” She smiled and winked.

  I swung my free fist around, but she shoved me back, onto my ass, and then sprinted down the street. By the time I got to my feet she’d ducked behind a building and disappeared.

  This was what I got for trying to have friends.

  I considered my options. I could call in the cavalry, but Holly was too smart to get picked up by a squad car. I could go home and let fate take its course; after all, I’d tried my best to stop her. Or I could head for Ravenswood and hope she would call.

  Naturally, I headed for Ravenswood.

  CHAPTER 36

  JACK IS COMING. Alex knows.

  An anticipatory smile creeps onto Alex’s face.

  This is working out better than expected.

  The smell from the basement wafts up through the floor. Alex ignores it, deciding what to do next.

  The apartment is a mess. There are things to fix, things to do before Jack’s arrival.

  This trap must be carefully set for it to work.

  “Where shall I hide?”

  Alex has seen the TV show, knows all about the time Charles hid in Jack’s closet and almost killed her.

  There’s a closet in the living room that will be just perfect.

  “In the closet. Second time’s a charm.”

  The man enters the closet, knife in hand.

  CHAPTER 37

  I PARKED NEXT to a hydrant on Lincoln Avenue, just north of Montrose. Ravenswood covered about three hundred square blocks, and like many other Chicago neighborhoods was undergoing some extreme gentrification. Lured by affordable housing, rehabbers had been buying like crazy and slowly increasing the property value by rebuilding, remodeling, and repainting. The liquor stores and chop shops of years past were being replaced by Starbucks and Panera Bread franchises.

  If Caleb Ellison resided in Ravenswood, he had thousands of houses, apartments, lofts, and condos to hide in.

  Before I could dwell on how this case spiraled out of control, my cell rang.

  “Hi, Jack. You alone?”

  “Dammit, Holly. Where are you?”

  “Where are you?”

  “On Lincoln and Montrose.”

  “You’re close. I’m on Bell Avenue and Argyle. I’m going into the house.”

  “Holly, don’t . . .”

  CLICK.

  I jammed the car into gear and did a U-turn, racing east down Montrose, and then hanging an immediate left on Bell. Argyle was eight o
r nine blocks up. The area was dark, residential, all houses and apartments. Eighty-year-old oak and maple trees lined the sidewalks, parked cars lined the streets.

  I got to the corner ninety seconds after receiving the call, and double-parked parallel to a Saab. I hopped out of the car and did a slow 360-degree look around.

  No Holly.

  I checked my cell phone to see if the caller ID had picked up her number, but she’d blocked it.

  She was going to ruin this bust. Or even worse, she was going to get herself killed. And she was probably within a hundred yards. That is, if she’d been telling the truth. How could she possibly think . . .

  Three cars ahead of me was a sedan, the driver’s-side mirror missing.

  I tugged out my .38 and approached the car. Though the street wasn’t well lit, I could tell that the paint job was dark gray—Titanium Pearl. A glance at the rear confirmed it was the Eclipse.

  I did another scan of the area, looking for Holly. The Eclipse was parked in front of a large Victorian apartment building, yellow brick, with a walk-in courtyard. It didn’t seem like a place a serial killer would live. Too many tenants, too hard to come and go without being seen.

  Next to the Victorian was a two-story red neo-gothic building, with spires on the roof. Definitely more private, but every single light in the house was on, and curtains were open on both floors.

  Across the street was a three-flat. The top apartment had several lights on. The middle apartment was completely dark, and a large For Rent sign hung in the window. The basement window had a single light burning.

  That seemed the best bet. I approached cautiously, listening for anything out of the ordinary. The house had a black iron fence around the perimeter, and the gate had been pushed inward. I walked alongside the building, into the backyard, and saw the broken basement window.

  This was the house. And since a crime, breaking and entering, was in progress, I was legally entitled to enter the establishment. Holly’s illegal entry had saved me the trouble of needing a warrant.

  I considered calling for backup, decided to check it out first, and got on all fours, climbing backward through the ground-level window.