Cut to the Bone

by Shane Gericke

  She pointed to the large slash-in-a-circle over the water cooler. “They called nine-one-one once when a guy wouldn’t put out his cigarette. And he was out on the sidewalk.”

  “Smoke Nazis,” Branch grumped, shifting his grip on the cane. “Interesting where you found those matches.”

  “Behind a door, and nowhere close to a desk or chair,” she said. “I think it’s a clue.”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “But what on earth could it mean?”

  “Hey, you’re the detective,” Branch said. “Find out.”

  Marty hissed when he saw what hung from the bumper. He took a close look, hissed again.

  Backed slowly out of the crime scene.

  1:54 p.m.

  The kid at the window snatched the Executioner’s twenty. Mumbled into the headset. Played the register like a Steinway. Made change. A few minutes later, he handed over a bag with an oil stain so translucent the burger wrappers showed.

  The Executioner drove to the parking area.

  He unwrapped his food, ate quickly. He loved that first hot spurt of beef juice. How it so nicely coated his tongue and ran down his throat. Marvelous. Good thing he ordered three. Even with the bologna sandwiches at home, he was starving.

  Killing did that.

  He finished the second burger, bit into the last-

  Froze.

  A Naperville black-and-white was nosing into the lot. The burly cop behind the wheel wasn’t heading for the drive-through.

  The Executioner’s thighs went numb.

  Thirty minutes earlier he’d crept past the mud spa, gawking at the circus like a hundred other drivers. He looked for Windshield Emily. She wasn’t there. He looked harder, becoming so distracted he drifted into oncoming traffic.

  He was saved by the screech of the oncoming car.

  The Executioner waved, then ducked his head in what would look like shame but was really to hide his unbearded face. The other driver kept going, apparently accepting his “apology.”

  Now this.

  The cop crept up one aisle of parked vehicles, down the next. Stopped to bring a radio mike to his lips. Hopped out of the cruiser to peer into a car.

  The burgers congealed in his belly. His extremity numbness spread. His thin lips parted to suck extra oxygen, and his field of vision narrowed. He recognized the feeling - adrenaline dump. Telling his body to fight or flee.

  He untucked his shirt, wrapped his fingers around the Sig. The checkered grips bit into his gloved, finely scarred palm.

  The cop crept closer.

  He gripped tighter.

  Closer.

  Tighter.

  He flicked the window button. The electric purr sounded like a chainsaw, so acute were his senses. August humidity swirled through the Land Rover. It mixed with the frigid AC and shot dew all over his windshield.

  The cop pulled even.

  Looked up at him.

  The Executioner prepared to fire . . .

  The cop finished the last aisle and bumped out the exit.

  Safe.

  He wiped the gloves on his pants, drained.

  * * *

  A few minutes later he steered to the garbage can topped with a plastic clown. He threw napkins, cup, and oily bag into its yawning mouth.

  Followed by the evidence-laden paint can, which he’d tucked inside a beat-up cardboard box. By tomorrow, it’d be in a landfill, crushed by 1,000 tons of Naperville castoffs.

  He kicked up the AC till the jungle air turned polar, then headed south.

  Noting with approval the line of drivers dumping trash on top of his, and the absence of anyone who cared.

  2:02 p.m.

  “I hate rubbernecks,” Emily grumbled, passing out sandwiches behind the mud spa. Her stomach had started growling, so she volunteered to drive to Grandma Sally’s, the family restaurant a few blocks west on Ogden. “There I was, minding my own business, and some idiot in a Land Rover nearly hits me head-on.”

  “Gawking at the pretty flashing lights, huh?” Officer VapoRub said.

  “He was so not paying attention he drifted into my lane,” Emily said. “I had to slam on my brakes. Fortunately for him, he straightened up and waved his apologies.”

  “Should have pulled him over anyway,” VapoRub said, biting into a drippy gyro. “Teach the dope a lesson.”

  “And let the food get cold?” Branch said. “What kind of cop are you?”

  Everyone laughed.

  Branch’s phone burbled. Still chuckling, he plucked it off his belt.

  The long scar on his cheek began twitching. Emily knew what that meant. Her tuna on whole wheat began tasting like cardboard.

  “What?” she said when he disconnected.

  “It’s Marty at Seager Park - no, no, he’s fine,” Branch said, hastily adding the last when Emily blanched. “A sheriff’s dispatcher couldn’t raise one of her deputies. She thought it might be radio trouble, asked Marty to find him.”

  “And?”

  “He did, just now. Dead. His name’s Rayford Luerchen-”

  “Ray?” she gasped.

  “Uh-huh. Do you know him?”

  The brutality of the submachine-gun attack had erased parts of Branch’s long-term memory, she knew. Traumatic amnesia, the doctors called it. Branch simply didn’t remember her ugly history with Ray Luerchen.

  “Uh, yes, I do,” she said. “Go on.”

  “Marty found Ray deep in the woods, handcuffed to the tow ball of his cruiser. He’d been shot four times - jaw, chest, forehead.”

  “Jesus,” Emily groaned as the other cops shuffled and spat. While she despised the misogynist creep, she didn’t wish him murdered. “Did he get any shots off?”

  Branch shook his head. “Gun’s still in his holster. Let’s just hope Ray scratched his assailant. Maybe CSI will find some skin under his nails.”

  “Or jammed in his boot treads,” VapoRub said. “If he managed to kick the scrote.”

  “Even better.”

  Another thought occurred to Emily. “Maybe we’re looking at the same killer.”

  “As Zabrina Reynolds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unlikely,” Branch said. “Ray was shot, Zabrina stabbed.

  Most doers stick with one or the other. Too hard to be good at both.” He stroked his blue chin. “Then again . . .”

  “The timing,” she said.

  “Yeah. What are the odds of two killers roaming Naperville at the same time?”

  Emily tossed her sandwich in the garbage. “Maybe he was driving the side streets, trying to escape. Ray pulled him over. Not because he suspected anything, but just to write a ticket.”

  “Makes sense,” VapoRub said. “Ray would’ve had his gun out if the stop was anything other than routine. He ain’t the bravest chicken in the coop.”

  “Shooter pulls into the park,” Branch said, nodding. “Blasts Ray when he walks up. Cuffs him to the tow ball, dumps him in the trees.”

  “And escapes,” Emily said, the word fizzing bitter on her tongue. “Again.”

  “Looks like. I need to call Ken.”

  She leaned against the faded brick wall, wondering why she was suddenly so cold.

  2:09 p.m.

  “Grab whatever bodies you need,” Cross said, straining to hear his speakerphone over the whine of tires on interstate. “I’ll shuffle the paperwork when I’m back.”

  “Will do. Is the sheriff OK with me leading the task force?”

  “As long as Marty handles the Seager Park side.”

  “Fine by me,” Branch said. “Our people will concentrate on the spa.”

  Cross confirmed. “We’ll run the combined operation out of our station. It’s closer to both crime scenes than the county building.”

  “Already heard that, so I put more phones and laptops in the auditorium,” Branch said. “Our tech guys are setting up the database. Their media sergeant volunteered to be our official spokesman, and I accepted. Both canine units are sniffing
the park.”

  “They find anything?”

  “Picked up a scent in the woods. Lost it in the parking lot.”

  “Shooter escaped in a vehicle, then. Not on foot.”

  “Uh-huh. I put up roadblocks, but they won’t do any good. Too much time elapsed before Marty found the body. Shooter could be in Iowa by now.”

  “Goddamn Ray,” Cross grumbled. “Why didn’t he tell his dispatcher what he was doing? At least we’d know what the shooter was driving.”

  “He might have tried,” Branch said. “I’m no fan of Ray’s” - Marty had refreshed his memory of the self-important blowhard - “but the dead zone might have kept him from connecting. His lieutenant was on him to pump tickets, so he said screw the radio, I’ll call it in later.”

  “You’re probably right. We’ve all been there,” Cross said. “Moving on, what evidence did-”

  “Hang on, Chief, can’t hear you.”

  Cross waited for the static to ease.

  “What evidence did you find in the park?” he continued.

  “Blood, bullets, footprints, cruiser, and Ray,” Branch recited. “Along with the usual park trash - beer cans, take-out, condoms, whatnot.”

  “Lots for the crime lab to process.”

  “With more coming. CSIs are just starting the detail sweep.”

  “I’ll ask the state lab for help. What did you find at the spa?”

  “Nothing useful. Emily did spot something unusual, though.” He explained.

  “Interesting,” Cross said.

  “I thought so,” Branch said. “I’ll make sure she follows up.”

  “Good. Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

  “Till the next shoe drops. Where are you?”

  “Northbound I-55, passing Bloomington,” Cross said. “I’ll be in Naperville in an hour.”

  “It’s 110 miles!”

  “Your point?”

  “I’ll call with news,” Branch chuckled. “Assuming you live through the fireball to hear it.”

  Cross smiled, then disconnected.

  He called the mayor and city manager with updates. The sheriff to coordinate assignments and offer condolences. The state lab for help. And finally, the governor. Covington had offered to take over execution security so Cross could concentrate on the double homicide. Cross considered it, but decided to say no. Matter of pride. He’d meant what he said in Springfield - nobody was better than his cops.

  “Are you positive you can handle both?” Covington said after Cross explained.

  “Yes,” Cross said. “But if that changes, I’ll call.”

  “Make sure you do,” Covington warned. “I don’t care if Martians land on that Riverwalk of yours, Trent is going to die at noon Friday. It’s your job to make sure that happens.”

  Cross looked at the cell phone. “I told you I can do both, Wayne, and I will. But the homicides take priority if push comes to shove.”

  “Goddammit, Ken, that’s not what I want to hear-”

  “If they’re not solved ASAP, chances are they won’t be,” Cross said. “Since one’s a police officer and the other a young woman, failure is not an option.” He shook his head. “Your execution, on the other hand, can easily be rescheduled.”

  “Rescheduled?” Covington roared, his voice greased with anger. “Have you lost your mind? That monster cut a baby from a mother’s living womb!”

  Cross turned down the volume.

  “Trent’s so inhuman his parents moved out of state when he was convicted. One sister changed her name, the other hangs up on reporters when they mention his name. His brother told Newsweek, ‘Our heart goes out to those poor victims. Our family neither fathoms, nor forgives, this monstrous act. Corey is no longer our blood, and we won’t be there for him. Ever.’“

  “Gee, I didn’t know that,” Cross said. “It’s only led every newscast this week. Whatever you pay your press secretary, it’s not enough-”

  “He’s going to burn!” Covington raged, a full octave higher. “In my electric chair! Till smoke comes out his ears! You screw this up, Ken, I’ll fire your ass and-”

  “Don’t you threaten me, Wayne,” Cross shot back. “I don’t work for you. As for Trent, he is a jackal, and I’ll light him up Friday as requested. But a guarantee? You don’t get one. There are no guarantees in this business, and you know it. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  A long, hollow silence.

  “Just make sure it gets done, Chief. If you know what’s good for you.”

  “Threaten me again, Governor, I’ll turn this car around and kick your-”

  Click.

  Cross ended the call, shaking his head. Covington had always been overbearing on the topic because of brother Andy, but this was ridiculous.

  Passing the state prison in Pontiac, where Death Row was housed before Covington transferred it to Stateville for its proximity to the new Naperville Justice Center, he visualized Emily bouncing off the hood of the getaway car. Imagined Miss Reynolds drowning in her own blood. Saw Ray Luerchen drain into the wormholes of a hot, lonely parking lot.

  He pushed the cruiser to 140.

  He flipped on the siren when other cars appeared but otherwise kept it silent - too hard on the ears. Twigs and gravel banged off the glass, disappeared in the slipstream. The steering wheel shook. He wondered how long he could hold this speed without breaking something.

  As long as I have to.

  2:27 p.m.

  The family in the next lane stared at the highly agitated driver talking to no one.

  The Executioner glared back, peeling his lips off his long white teeth.

  Dad tromped on the brakes. The trucker behind rode the air horn.

  You’ve got to relax, the Executioner told himself. You escaped Naperville just fine. Don’t blow it now by attracting attention.

  “I’m on Interstate 55,” he told Bowie over the hands-free throwaway cell. Billboards flew by at sixty-five mph. Each promised Big Laffs in the upcoming TV season. He doubted that. “Nobody saw me. Nobody’s following.”

  The rearview was smudgy from all the times he’d made sure.

  “I’ll get a couple of stiff drinks in St. Louis, then a nice supper. Fly out in the morning.”

  His muscles began leaking tension.

  A million-to-one shot, Emily Thompson smearing his windshield. But truth was stranger than fiction. No way she could identify him, of course. Not from the half-second she spent before blowing away, and not with how well he’d altered his appearance.

  He’d left no fingerprints thanks to his skintight, flesh-colored gloves. Deposited no hair thanks to body shave, hairnet, and orange-and-blue Bears cap, which were hardening with the paint. He’d rented the Audi with a fake driver’s license and prepaid credit card. Ditto Subaru and Land Rover. It was so easy to forge credentials with Photoshop, Internet, and card burner.

  “Time to sign off, sport,” he told Bowie. “See you when I’m back.” Several moments’ pause. “Yeah, me, too.”

  He disconnected, then punched the radio preset. Drummed his fingers through weather, sports, and nausea/bloat/hygiene commercials.

  Finally the news.

  The announcer said a woman was shot this morning in Naperville. Said the upper-middle-class city of 150,000 was thirty miles west of Chicago and the nation’s best place to raise kids. Said the woman died instantly. Said cops found the getaway car, launched a dragnet. Said a female police detective was inside the spa and heard screaming.

  So that’s how Emily got there.

  Said the detective chased the killer but got run over. Said the detective wasn’t seriously injured. Said her name was Emily Marie Thompson. Said two years ago, she was a hero.

  The Executioner whistled “Zippity-Do-Dah” as he disengaged cruise control. What the announcer didn’t say was a description. If Emily had seen him, that would have led the story. Ditto the fat cop in the park. He was utterly, completely safe.

  He put on his turn signal
and pulled to the shoulder. Slow, deliberate, a total Calvin Careful. Traffic whizzed past inches from his door, the wind shear rocking him like a hobbyhorse. He saw a black-and-white police car running full-boogie in the northbound lanes. He didn’t care. His hands were steady as iron plates.

  He pulled a spiral notebook from his poplin sport coat. It had a canary cover and light-blue page rules. He clicked a Fisher Space Pen - the one the astronauts used, which was cool - and ran a line through Zabrina Reynolds. His all-caps lettering was precise and touched neither rule. He unclicked and counted the ink lines.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

  Followed by three still un-inked. Two were out west.

  The last was back in Naperville.

  He smiled.

  Emily Thompson was already dead.

  She just didn’t know it yet.

  4:18 p.m.

  “Who could have done this to my Zabrina?” Cassie Reynolds wailed. She curled sideways on her daughter’s bed, knees clutched to her chest. “Who? Why?”

  “We don’t know, ma’am,” Branch said. “Not yet.”

  “You’re the police! You’re supposed to know! What’s taking you so long?”

  “We’ve put on every available resource,” Branch assured. “Chief Cross and the county sheriff assembled a joint task force. Our best detectives, CSIs, and canine units are in the field looking for clues. The state crime lab’s on board. And we’ve issued an all-points bulletin on the killer.”

  He didn’t mention that nobody knew what he looked like - all the manicurist remembered was the gleaming blade - where he was headed, what he was driving, or if he was a he.

  Cassie had stumbled into the police station at 2:16 p.m., drained white from her frantic drive from Milwaukee. Her husband, she said, was in Amsterdam on business. She’d caught him between meetings, and he was taking the next flight home. The task force debriefed her face-to-face, then him via cell.

  Nothing useful.

  The coroner wasn’t ready for the formal identification, so Branch offered to drive Cassie to her daughter and boyfriend’s condo. Perhaps she’d see something to spark a helpful memory.