Whiskey Sour

by J. A. Konrath

  By the time I was feeling the slightest bit drowsy, the sun peeked in through the blinds and I had to get up to go to work.

  I sat up and stretched my tired bones, and then went into my morning exercise routine. A hundred sit-ups, with a promise to do two hundred tomorrow. Twenty push-ups, with a similar promise. Thinking about doing some barbell curls and rejecting the idea because the barbell was hidden in the closet. And then off to the shower.

  I’d survived my first night without Don, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as it might have been. It could only get easier with time.

  Then I saw his toothbrush on the bathroom sink and was depressed the rest of the day.

  Chapter 5

  CUTTING OR SLICING DOESN’T WORK, because it’s impossible to close it up afterward.

  The way to do it is to pinch each side of the wrapper by the seam and pull gently. This is tricky — opening the candy without ripping the package. Even the smallest tear is no good. People aren’t stupid. No one will eat candy with a torn wrapper.

  Working on the candy itself is the exciting part. “Fun Size!” the bag proclaims. “Dinky” was a more appropriate description. The mini candy bars are scarcely a bite each.

  But one bite is all it takes.

  His average is good; he only ruins four wrappers out of twenty-four. He sets the chocolate on a tray and opens up the package of sewing needles. Needles and pins work best. They don’t mar the surface going in; just leave a tiny hole that is easily covered up with a dot of melted chocolate. He uses four needles per candy bar, on cross angles, so no matter where it’s bitten, at least one will draw blood.

  After doing ten candy bars with needles, he cracks his knuckles and feels warmed up enough for some harder work.

  Fishhooks take finesse. He holds the candy lightly in a latex-gloved hand and picks up a hook with needle-nose pliers. Pushing the barb into the bottom of the candy, he inserts the hook bit by bit, angling the pliers in a curving motion so the entire fishhook disappears through the entry hole.

  It is difficult work, but he’s had years of practice. His personal record is eleven hooks in one small candy bar. He liked to prepare for Halloween weeks in advance, and when the big day arrived, he’d find a neighborhood house that was empty and set up his bowl full of lethal treats next to their door. Sometimes he also put a sign that said Only Take One! next to the bowl. A nice ghoulish touch.

  After rigging five pieces with fishhooks, he opens a box of X-Acto knife blades and pushes several of those into the remaining bars. X-Acto blades leave a bigger entry hole, but with a cigarette lighter and an extra chocolate bar, he can hide the hole from even the most intense inspection.

  After finishing all twenty candies, he places them carefully back into their wrappers. A few drops of Super Glue seal them back up. Then he puts the bars into the plastic bag they came in, one by one, through a small one-inch slit in the side. When he’s done, he puts four untainted candies from a second bag into this one, so it holds the correct total of twenty-four.

  Holding it in his hand, it looks like an ordinary bag of candy bars, ready to be consumed.

  He plugs in a hair crimper, lets it get hot, and then carefully crimps closed the slit he’s made in the bag. The crimper melts the plastic edges together somewhat unevenly, so he trims away the excess plastic with a razor blade.

  Perfect.

  Now it’s time to see whom the treat will go to. He turns his attention to the photos on the table, flipping through them to find the two he wants.

  They are both close-ups of faces. He’d taken them at the 7-Eleven the other day, while standing in the crowd and watching the stupid pigs trample around his crime scene. One is of a fat man with a mustache. The other is of a thin woman with nice legs.

  One of these is the officer in charge of his case. They were the only two cops there who weren’t wearing uniforms, so they had to be the top guys. But which one is the head honcho? The one who, by the luck of the draw, has become his nemesis?

  A simple phone call to the police will reveal who heads the case, but he doesn’t want to call from his home phone. The pigs can trace phone calls instantly, and he doesn’t want it to lead back to him somewhere down the line.

  Nothing will lead back to him.

  His plan is flawless. Perfect. Every last detail has been worked out. Stalk. Abduct. Destroy. Dispose. Repeat. He has the perfect cover, has their schedules down pat, even has a contingency plan if the police ever find him. Not that they will, but it pays to plan ahead.

  So he takes a walk to the nearest pay phone, on the outside of a Mini-Mart, and calls Information to find out what police station is nearest to Monroe and Washington — the corner where he dumped the first whore.

  Armed with the district number, he calls the officer on duty and identifies himself as a reporter from the Herald.

  “Can you spell out the name of the detective in charge?”

  “Daniels, first name Jack.”

  “Jack Daniels? For real?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is he on the heavy side, has a mustache?”

  “No, that’s Detective Benedict. He’s Daniels’s partner. Jack is a woman. Short for Jacqueline, I think. She’s a lieutenant.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hanging up, he feels excitement crackle through his body like electricity. He rushes back home to his pictures, leafing through them until he finds one of Daniels leaving the scene in her crappy Chevy Nova.

  “I know who you are.” The Gingerbread Man rubs his finger over her face. “And I know what you drive. But I’ll know more. Much more.”

  He smiles. Chicago thinks a simple bitch like that can catch him?

  Think again.

  He checks his watch. Nine in the morning. He isn’t going to grab the second girl for another two hours. What time does the good lieutenant go to work? Is she there right now?

  He decides to check. Picking up the bag of candy with pliers to avoid leaving fingerprints, he carries the gift to his truck and takes a meandering path to the 26th District.

  It looks like any other building in Chicago, except this one houses cops rather than offices or apartments. There is a parking lot next to it with a big sign that reads “Police Vehicles Only.” On his third trip around the lot, he spies Jack’s Nova, near the back, between two patrol cars.

  “Hey, buddy!”

  A cop flags him down. He almost hits the gas in panic, but when the pig approaches, it’s obvious what he wants.

  “It’s on me, Officer.” The Gingerbread Man smiles, handing the cop his selection. “I appreciate you keeping the city safe.”

  The pig doesn’t even thank him, waddling off down the street, letting the biggest arrest of his life drive away.

  The Gingerbread Man parks in front of a meter and puts on some leather gloves. Cradling the bag of goodies in his jacket, he walks briskly back to the police station and enters the parking lot as if he belongs there. Two uniformed patrolmen give him a glance, and he nods a hello, confident and at ease. They return the nod and walk on.

  Adrenaline threatening to make his heart explode, he approaches Jack’s car and pulls the slim-jim out of his pants leg. It’s a long strip of thin metal with a forked end. He forces it between the driver’s-side window and the weather stripping, and jams it down into the inner workings of the car door. By feel, he finds the lock mechanism and pushes down.

  Up pops the button, in about the same amount of time it would have taken to open it with a key.

  The interior smells faintly of perfume. Even though he’s in a hurry, he climbs behind the wheel and savors the moment.

  Violation is such a rush.

  “I’m in your car, Jack.”

  He sniffs the steering wheel. Hand cream and hair spray.

  It tastes salty.

  On the floor is an empty cardboard coffee cup. He picks it up and licks the smudge of lipstick on the rim.

  His eyes close, and he can see Jack, tied up in his basement, naked and bloo
dy and screaming.

  Such an excellent idea.

  Another look around proves the parking lot is still empty. He places the package on the passenger seat and searches through the glove compartment for the lieutenant’s vehicle registration. He memorizes the address, grinning at how easy this is.

  “I’ll be seeing you, Jack.”

  His lingering has put him a few minutes behind schedule. He doesn’t want to be late grabbing the second whore. He has a bunch of new things he’s just aching to try out with her.

  He makes sure no one is watching, then he gets out of the car and strolls back to his truck, a spring in his step.

  What a day this is turning out to be.

  Chapter 6

  I WAS FINISHING MY THIRD CUP of coffee when the FBI walked in.

  They didn’t immediately announce themselves as Feebies when they entered my office, without knocking. But both wore tailored gray suits, Harvard ties, spit-shined shoes, and crew cuts. Who else could they be — yearbook committee?

  “Lieutenant Daniels?” The one on the right continued before I acknowledged him. “I’m Special Agent George Dailey. This is Special Agent Jim Coursey.”

  Special Agent Coursey nodded at me.

  “We’re from the Bureau,” Special Agent Coursey said.

  Special Agent Dailey nodded at me.

  Dailey was slightly taller, and his hair a shade lighter, but that minimal difference was negligible. They could have been clones. And knowing our government, they might have been.

  “We’re both ViCAT operatives of the BSU.”

  “The Violent Criminal Apprehension Team of the Behavioral Science Unit.”

  “We’ve done a profile of the perpetrator, and we have a printout of possible related cases with percentile rankings of same suspect likelihood.”

  “Are we going too fast for you?”

  I said, “You’re early.”

  They looked at each other, then back at me.

  “The sooner we give your people an idea of what we’re looking for, the sooner we catch him,” Dailey said.

  Coursey dropped his briefcase onto my desk and snapped it open, pulling out a packet of neatly stacked paper. He handed me the top sheet.

  “Are you familiar with profiling?”

  I nodded.

  “Profiling of repeat and recreational killers is done with the ViCAT computer at Quantico.” Dailey had apparently missed my nod. “We enter specific details about the murder, including but not limited to the condition of the corpse, location it was found, method of demise, signs of ritualism, physical evidence, witness testimony, and any beforehand information about the deceased. The computer analyzes the data and gives us a rough description of the suspect.”

  “For example,” Coursey took over, “our suspect is a male Caucasian, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-nine. He’s right-handed, and owns a station wagon or truck. He’s blue collar, probably a factory worker, possibly in the textiles industry. He is an alcoholic, and prone to violent rages. He frequents western bars and enjoys line dancing.”

  “Line dancing,” I said.

  “He also wears women’s underwear,” Dailey added. “Possibly his mother’s.”

  I felt a headache coming on.

  “As a juvenile he set fires and committed relations with animals.”

  “With animals,” I said.

  “There’s a high probability he’s been arrested before. Possibly for assault or rape, probably on elderly women.”

  “But he’s impotent now.”

  “He may also be gay.”

  I lifted my coffee cup to my lips and found it was empty. I lowered it again.

  “He hears voices.”

  “Or maybe just one voice.”

  “It could be the voice of his mother, telling him to kill.”

  “Maybe she just wants her underwear back,” I offered.

  “He may be disfigured or disabled. He might have severe acne scars, or scoliosis.”

  “That’s a curvature of the spine,” Dailey added.

  “Is that a hunch?” I asked.

  “Just an educated guess.”

  I thought about explaining the joke to them, but it would be wasted.

  “He may have been dropped on his head as a child,” Coursey said.

  He probably wasn’t the only one.

  “Gentlemen.” I wasn’t sure where to begin, but I gave it a try. “Call me a skeptic, but I don’t see how any of this is going to help us catch him.”

  “First of all, you should start staking out western bars.”

  “And local textile factories that have hired someone with a criminal record within the last six months.”

  “I could stake out the zoo too,” I said. “He may be sneaking in at night and committing relations with animals.”

  “I doubt it.” Coursey furrowed his brow. “The profile says he’s impotent now.”

  I rubbed my eyes. When I finished, the two of them were still there.

  “Of course, the profile may change slightly as more data becomes available,” Dailey said.

  “If he kills again.”

  “When he kills again.”

  They looked at each other and nodded smartly.

  I wondered, in all seriousness, what would happen if I pulled my revolver and shot one of them. Would the other one arrest me, or would he wait to see if my profile showed the proper aptitude for the crime?

  “Here’s the statement we’re releasing to the press.” Coursey handed me another piece of paper. “Now that we’re assigned to the case.”

  “We still have jurisdiction.” I let some irritation show. “No state borders have been crossed.”

  “Not yet. Until then, we’re just consultants.”

  “Simply a tool for you to use.”

  “To help make things run smoother.”

  There’s a laugh for you.

  “This” — Dailey handed me more papers — “is a list of reasons why we’ve pegged the murderer as organized rather than disorganized. You’re familiar with the concept of grouping serial criminals as either O or DO?”

  I nodded. He went on, paying me no heed. I had a feeling this entire meeting could have been conducted without my presence.

  “DO, or disorganized criminals, usually have little or no planning stage. Their crimes are spur of the moment, either lust-or rage-induced. Signs of guilt or remorse can usually be found at the scene, such as something covering the victim’s face; an indication the killer doesn’t like the accusation of a staring pair of eyes. Clues in the form of physical and circumstantial evidence abound, because the DO type doesn’t stop to cover them up, or only does as an afterthought.”

  “I’m familiar with the labels.” I stated it, distinctly, precisely.

  “The organized type,” he went on. Perhaps I hadn’t been clear enough. “Usually spends a lot of time on the planning stage. The perp may spend days beforehand fantasizing about the murder, plotting out every detail. He won’t leave evidence intentionally, and usually the victim bears no sign of savage, uncontrollable violence. The injuries, while they can be sadistic, are more focused and controlled.”

  “We’ve come up with one hundred and fifteen reasons why we believe this killer is the organized type,” Coursey said. “And we’d like to take an hour or so to go over them with you.”

  I was ready to fake a heart attack to get them to leave, when Benedict walked into my office, saving me the trouble.

  “Jack, we got a lead on that Seconal. Sixty milliliters were purchased by a Charles Smith on August tenth of this year at the Mercy Hospital pharmacy.”

  “Have we found him?”

  “He gave a fake address. There are seventeen Charles Smiths in Chicago and twelve more in the rest of Illinois, but it looks like the name is fake too.”

  “What about the doctor?”

  “That’s how we nailed it down. The doctor’s name was Reginald Booster.”

  The name was familiar.

  �
�The unsolved murder from Palatine a couple months back?”

  “That’s him. He was killed at his home on August ninth. I had the file faxed to us and I’ve called his daughter. We’re meeting her at the house at one.”

  “Let’s go.” I stood up and grabbed my jacket, thrilled to be actually doing something on this case.