by Tom Secret
65. AN EYE FOR AN EYE
Sunday, 10:45 a.m.
Randall remained inside the elevator, his finger on the 'close' button, as he scanned for movement within the parking garage beneath his apartment building. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he stepped out and hurried past the dark bays, checking the shadows around the pillars for Piest’s henchmen, while chanting his mantra, over and over: “My name is Randall Cilcifus. I am the captain of my ship, and master of my destiny. I will crush my enemies and rise victorious. My name is Randall Cilcifus. I am the captain of my ship, and master of my destiny…”
His Chrysler sedan came into view, and he pressed the alarm fob, sending a piercing screech through the concrete structure. Making one final scan around, he breathed a grateful sigh as he eased himself into the plush interior and closed the door with a reassuring clunk. He pressed the door lock button and stared at the dashboard where two eyeballs, with the remains of their optic nerve, stared back at him.
Something moved in the rearview mirror; a chord slipped over his head, pulled tight around his neck and jerked his head back against the headrest, as a cold, hard object pressed against the base of his skull, and a warm stream of urine seeped into his trousers.
“Do you like trivia questions, Mr. Cilcifus?”
“What the… who the hell are you? Do you know who I am?”
The man smiled. “I know who you are, Mr. Cilcifus, and you will come to know me, too—as your nemesis; the deliverer of your retribution. I am in fact, your Redeemer.”
“You… you’re not my nemesis! I’m the nemesis, so get the fuck out of my car before I have you arrested!”
“Do you recognize your friend’s eyeballs, Mr. Cilcifus? He tried to take something precious, but now he only has eyes for you.” The man smiled again. “But you know that, because you were there with him, weren’t you? Tut-tut! A grave mistake.”
Randall tried to pull forward. “Ow! What do you want?”
“Ah, what does anyone want? Enlightenment would be the noblest goal of all, but for now, I shall have to settle for something a little less lofty. I want answers, Mr. Cilcifus, and I have cause to believe you can provide them.”
Randall pulled his cell phone from his pocket, fumbled it, and tried to pull forward as it disappeared down the crack beside his seat. “Fuck! Let go of me!”
“No! You and I will get to know each other these next few days, and you will tell me every little detail, of anything I want to know, while you do penance for your sins.”
Randall met the man’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Read my lips, you maggot. Get out of my fucking car!”
“Mr. Cilcifus, the sooner you learn that I abhor foul language, the less painful this will be. Rest assured, by the time our association reaches its denouement, you will tell me everything I want to know. But to lighten the mood, I have a trivia question for you. If your answer is correct, I will release you like those wild animals you so enjoy killing, and this time, you may attempt to run for your life. Okay, ready?” The man shoved the hard object against Randall’s neck.
“Yes!”
“In the 1995 film ‘Assassins,’ Robert Rath and Miguel Bain—fabulous names, I must add—both use the same pistol. And the question is—wait for it—what was the make and model of the gun?”
66. THE NOOSE
Sunday, 11:15 a.m.
Donatello looked from the faces of the people stood around him in the glass-walled conference room as Lance hobbled in, his red and white leathers scuffed and dirty, and his right arm in a cast and sling.
“Nice of you to join us, Lance. Nothing too serious, I hope?”
“Sorry, Big D, she skidded on the ice.”
“Any other injuries?”
“Just my pride.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay. Now, before we catch each other up, thank you all for putting in so much extra time; we’re closing in because of your hard work. Sanjit, we appreciate you cutting your festival short, and pulling an all-nighter, so you’re up.”
Sanjit stopped scratching his beard and rose from his chair. “Morning, peoples. As you’re aware, on Captain Colby’s instructions, we were treating the nanny murder as an isolated incident, with the abduction and murder of the children as the deranged acts of the mother’s former brother-in-law; the now deceased Rohn Stark. However, having cross-referenced his data records against those of Walton and Black, not only did Stark and Walton know each other, but they were also in regular contact, as were Walton and Black.”
“Just to be clear, folks,” Donatello added, “those records also link Randall Cilcifus, Stark’s boss, with Black, Walton, and Ian Michaels, the owner of the warehouse. And, IRS personnel filed missing-persons on Friday for one Antwan Livingston, who also works for… you guessed it, Randal Cilcifus.”
“Has forensics put any of them at the warehouse, Lieutenant?” Crane asked.
“I’ll let Ray Ray take that one.”
All eyes shifted to the petite forensics expert. “We found hundreds of individual DNA traces in the cages, where they held the children. Dozens of adult prints were around the warehouse which we’re now running, but the bleach has prevented us from sampling the blood inside the entrance, though we’re still hoping to score partial profiles. We need swabs from Michaels, Livingston, and Cilcifus before we can put them at the scene, but we got a match off Stark and Walton, so we know for sure they were.”
“Sanjit, can you overlay route analysis for each mobile data set?” Lance said.
Sanjit shook his head. “That’s negatory. Except for Black, the GPS data shows the devices switched off at the homes of the individuals and seldom switched back on in any other location.”
“Thank you, Ray Ray, Sanjit. Okay, folks, the good news is, most of the kids freed from the warehouse were from South America and are now in the care of Child Protective Services. The others were local missing children, and calls have been coming in from parents reporting their safe return. The bad news is that the press is having a field day with the headline that this vigilante hero should be the new police captain.”
“Maybe they’re right,” Lance said, raising a chuckle from the others.
Donatello caught Sergeant Carlson’s glare. “Well, it hasn’t helped our ratings any—or this investigation. And now Captain Colby will be even more determined to bury this investigation. So, if Sergeant Carlson can lose the scowl for long enough, perhaps he and Crane, can bring us up to speed on Damian Black; Gentlemen?”
Crane glanced at Carlson. “I’ll start. Mrs. Black showed up with her attorney and her tennis coach last night. The coach has provided a sworn statement they were together at the beach house, and his DNA matches semen found there. It appears Mr. Black knew they were having an affair.”
“Anyone to corroborate?” Donatello said.
“Officers questioned the local decorator this morning,” Crane said. “Turns out Mr. Black was paying him extra to take photos of his wife and the coach getting down and slurpy.”
“And the other semen at the house?” Donatello said.
“Black’s two daughters admitted throwing pool parties when their parents were away.”
“Maybe they were trying to get their inheritance a little early,” Sanjit said.
“That was the first point the wife’s attorney addressed,” Carlson said. “Black set up trust funds for the daughters when they were young, and wrote them out of everything else in his will. But, thanks to him, they’re independently wealthy, so on the face of it, they had no incentive to kill him.”
“And Mrs. Black?” Donatello said.
“Motive by the shovel load,” Carlson said. “There was no prenup, and she admits the relationship was over long ago, but we can’t put her at the murder scene.”
“She could have paid for a hit,” Lance said.
Donatello stepped up to the whiteboard. “It’s possible, but given the other homicides in Black’s orbit, I would say our number one priority is to get Michaels in her
e, along with Cilcifus and all of his staff.”
“The captain won’t like that, Lieutenant.” Carlson folded his arms.
Donatello felt his hackles rise. “We’re not here to pander to the captain’s whims, Sergeant, so get them in for questioning please.”
Carlson flexed his jaw muscles. “You have a beef with the IRS, don’t you, Lieutenant?”
Donatello caught Kennedy’s guilty look. “You know I do, because I told Kennedy, and he obviously told you, but what does that have to do with this case?”
Carlson looked at Kennedy as if hoping for backup.
“If the IRS investigator that visited you works for Cilcifus, which I suspect he does, you’re not in a position to give impartial instructions, and that could compromise the investigation, like…”
“What?”
Carlson puffed out his chest. “Like with the Jonah murder.”
“I see. You’d prefer we follow the captain’s lead and sweep the evidence under the rug?”
“You have a clear conflict of interest, and it’s not appropriate for you to make statements like that.”
“Really, Carlson? Yet it is appropriate for you to accuse your own superior of misconduct?”
Carlson reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a voice recorder, held it up and clicked the off button. “I’ll let the captain decide.” He stormed from the briefing room.
Donatello took a deep breath as the door slammed shut. “Okay folks, now I’ve kicked over the Hornets’ nest, let's get Cilcifus and his team in here. Sanjit, did any of the cross-referencing spit out Colby?”
“I’m afraid not, but we ran a deep-data dive on everything we copied at Black’s.”
“And?”
“Guy had hundreds of business contacts, Lieutenant.”
“Okay, we’re looking for someone with a serious grudge, so to narrow it down, look for anyone Black had direct investment dealings with, where the company went under, and get them in for questioning as well before this whole mess blows up.”
67. THE KROK
Sunday, 1:48 p.m.
“Hello, Mr. Cilcifus,” Marcus said, as the man slumped on the sawdust-covered floor, opened his eyes.
Cilcifus squinted beneath the glare of the industrial overhead lights hanging from their metal chains. “Where am I? What did you give me?”
Remaining silent, Marcus watched his prey discover its hands cuffed to the metal leg of the industrial workbench behind it.
“I recognize you!” Cilcifus said, peering at him as he tried to free his hands. “You’re that faggot from Fairweather’s house. Ow! Why’s my arm burning?”
Marcus closed his eyes to center himself; quiet the raging waters of his emotions and allow the unfolding to occur naturally; not by force as he had all those years ago. He had known better; trained to be better, and yet, despite his training—or perhaps because of it—his emotions had dragged him down, overwhelmed him, and driven him to eradicate his enemies before they could reveal the knowledge he so desperately coveted. The aftermath of his rashness had been his living nightmare ever since; but not this time.
Cilcifus slammed the cuffs against the metal leg. “Why don’t you say something? What are you, a sicko priest or something? You like children, sicko? I can arrange it for you…”
Marcus opened his eyes and placed his index finger to his lips. “Shh.”
“You don’t get to shush me! I’m IRS Special Investigations! There isn’t a cesspool on earth deep enough for you to hide from me. I will bury you alive, I’ll—”
“Silencio!”
“Say what?!”
“Stilte!”
“Speak English, you, you—”
“One more crass word, Mr. Cilcifus, and I will inject you again.”
“Inject… is that why my arm’s burning? What the fuck did you put in me?”
“Krokodil.” Marcus walked to the far end of the metal bench, clicked open the latches of his toolbox, and opened the lid. He was familiar with this phase; the bravado and threats that gave way, inevitably, to acceptance and capitulation.
“What the hell is Krokodil, and where d’you get that watch?”
Marcus looked at his watch and smiled. “Krokodil, my dear Mr. Cilcifus, is a heroin substitute I stumbled upon when I was in Russia searching for you.”
“You stuck me with a heroin sub… wait, I’ve never even been to Russia.”
“I realize that now, but six years ago I believed I would find you there.”
“Are you high? You’ve got me confused with someone else!”
“Interesting choice of words, Mr. Cilcifus. The low you are feeling right now is the comedown from the Krokodil, which is three times stronger than heroin but lasts only ninety minutes; and is why I am making you another batch.”
“Hold on, I only just saw you at Fairweather’s house. What was six years ago? I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong guy. Lots of people look like me, you know. Tell you what, let me go, and we can forget this ever happened, eh?”
Marcus laid out the ingredients and crushed the codeine. “How did you meet Detective Jonah, Mr. Cilcifus?”
“Jonah… wait a minute, didn’t he die six years ago?”
“He did. I killed him, along with everyone I could find he was working with—everyone except you, that is.”
“H-how did you know I knew him?”
“I didn’t—until just now when you recognized the watch I took from him. A memento of my crusade to rid the world of people like you.”
“I don’t… who are you? You’re not a cop.”
Marcus ignored him as he scraped off the red phosphorus from the match heads and mixed the iodine, codeine, hydrochloric acid, and gasoline. He lit the tiny camping stove and positioned the lightweight skillet over the flame. “It takes around thirty minutes for this to reduce, so we have time for a little chat. My name is Marcus Fairweather.”
“Fairweather! You’re the sperm donor for that—”
“Enough of that, Mr. Cilcifus. We will have a civil conversation, or the next injection will go in your eyeball. Did I mention that Krokodil, amongst its many other attributes, causes gangrene?”
“So, what is this, payback for what I did to your bastard spawn?”
“This, Mr. Cilcifus, is where both your karma and my prayers get fulfilled.”
“You are a fucking priest!”
“I won’t tell you again, Mr. Cilcifus. This is an eye for an eye. Rather poetic, considering my daughter-in-law took the eyes on your dashboard from your friend, after the two of you tried to snatch her children—my grandchildren.”
“Antwan?”
“You are here because I intend to shoot you full of Krokodil until your flesh rots and falls off your bones and you are so crazed for your next fix you will chew your own fingers off when I tell you to. And mark my words, Mr. Cilcifus, I will tell you to.”
The man lurched forward, slamming the cuffs against the bench leg as he strained to get to his feet.
Marcus continued. “You are going to tell me where my grandchildren are, and who has taken them, and, during the next few days—which I have spent these past six years praying to see—you will tell me everything, and I mean, everything, concerning the abduction, sale, and shipment to Europe of my two daughters, Isabella and Amberlee, including the names of all those involved, and the present whereabouts of my girls… why are you smiling?”
“Because now I remember. You know, you are closer to them than you think.”
“Enlighten me.”
Cilcifus motioned toward Marcus’s watch. “You like it, right? I mean, that’s why you’ve worn it all these years?”
Marcus considered the question. “Do you know what a spiked cilice chain is?”
“Isn’t it something you faggot priest’s strap around your thighs as penance, while you’re shagging little boys?”
“I wear this watch like a cilice chain, Mr. Cilcifus, to remind me of my mission, to exterminate vermin like you.”
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“Well, priest, consider yourself enlightened.” Cilcifus chuckled. “Damian Black bought that watch for Detective Jonah, as a thank you—after he snatched your girls!”
68. Q AND NO A
Monday, 5:05 p.m.
Brad focused cross-eyed and downward, to the purple break in the bridge of his nose, then followed it down to the ragged, raw nostrils and the bulbous upper lip. The stubs of his teeth were the worst though; now the thiopental was wearing off, he wanted to scream.
How long had he been in this interrogation room? Two hours? Three? There was no way to tell. No clock or windows; just three chairs, a desk, a mirror wall so they could observe him, and no air circulation. His search for a vent had proved futile, and now damp circles hung beneath his armpits. Father called it sandbagging and said interrogators took it as a sign you were weakening. It couldn’t just be because the room was stuffy and hot and they should install air conditioning and provide a chair that wasn’t a relic of the Holy Inquisition.
On and off over the years, Father had talked about interrogation tactics. The lies they could tell; eyewitness evidence put you here; we have your prints at the scene there; your DNA is everywhere. Everything designed to extract a confession, even a false one. Brad pictured the floors of a thousand hair and nail salons, covered in innocent DNA, begging to get planted somewhere incriminating.
Thanks to Father, Brad even knew the interrogators applied techniques developed by some guy named Reid, and that most forces used it as the basis for their criminal interrogation and confessions manual. Start friendly, get you chitchatting to establish a baseline for eye movements, the rate of breathing, skin tone, and reactions to stimulus. Then develop the theme that fits the case, stop denials in their tracks, overcome objections, and corner you into a confession based on the scenario just invented by the interrogator, backed up by his lies and nonexistent evidence. Finished. It was classic stuff. Guilty until proven innocent, and the cardinal rule was, don’t let the suspect ask for a lawyer, because the minute they do, the interview is over—or should be.
For the first time, Brad understood why Father had made sure he knew this stuff. Perhaps he’d thank the old bastard if he ever showed his face again.