Cut to the Bone

by Shane Gericke

  Her tetchy calf did provide that one tiny benefit, she conceded - forcing her to slow and smell the roses. Which made her think about Sage Farri.

  And the killer.

  “Why on earth are you hunting them?” she wondered aloud. “And why did you come to Naperville? For Zabrina? Me? Somebody else? Why are you so angry?”

  She knew the killer had a good reason. They always did, even if was understandable only to them and their buddies on Planet Psycho. Her job was to look at the situation through his eyes, see the world as he did. Then, maybe she’d get it. Understand his reasoning. See why he’d kept the remarkable secret so long, then sprung it on her so abruptly-

  Forget it. The rest of the day was for death and destruction. The morning run was for her.

  The Executioner heard the distant slap of shoes on pavers.

  Right on time.

  He poked his monocular between the two dense shrubs in which he’d cloaked himself, compared target to memorized reconnaissance. Five-six, chestnut hair that skirted the neck, oval face, large emerald eyes, sturdy body with small waist and well-defined legs and arms. Snug shorts, loose metal-band T-shirt, high-knees running style, sweating like she’d done six miles, returning home on the north side of the river, 5:45 on the dot.

  He pulled his dagger from the sheath, crouched for the kill.

  “Everybody ready?” the minister asked.

  “Ready!” his congregation answered.

  “Then let’s go save a life!”

  They raised the rafters with huzzahs, then boarded their long white bus for the pilgrimage to Naperville. The minister tested headlights, wipers, and brakes. The editor of the weekly paper snapped digitals. The lady who’d won the Betty Crocker regional a few years back shoveled cake at congregants who couldn’t go. “With Thee in Spirit!” was written on each piece in red gel frosting. A photo of Jesus, the one with the upturned eyes and Fabio hair, was taped to a plant stake and plunked between “With” and “Thee.” Well-wishers buzzed like honeybees.

  “Grandpa, how far is it again?” his granddaughter asked as they pulled from the gravel lot.

  “Seventeen hundred miles,” he said, aiming forty-eight shiny faces at the rising sun. “And a whole bunch of prayers.”

  “Behind you.”

  Emily moved to the right. She’d noticed this woman the past few weeks, but this was the first time they’d been in the same spot at the same time.

  “Hey! You’re an Iron Maiden fan?” Emily said, hoping the T-shirt meant she was a fellow heavy-metal enthusiast.

  “Oh, no, this is my husband’s,” the woman said, slowing to match Emily’s cadence. “I listen to Lite FM.”

  Yuck, Emily thought. But started chatting anyway. The company made a nice distraction from her cold war with Marty. At work, they talked only to exchange information. At home . . . well, he was staying at his own house, not calling, not even e-mailing. She was angry, hurt, and very lonely. But she was too proud to beg him back. A miserable combination.

  They small-talked restaurants, movies, and weather - “it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” they agreed - then the woman asked about Emily’s hair. “I really like your cut,” she enthused. “Feminine and professional. That’s hard to pull off. Your stylist is terrific.”

  “Thanks,” Emily said. “I was lucky to find her.”

  “I’ll say. You and I have the same length and color. I’ll bet she can do mine just as great.”

  “Want her name?”

  “Would you mind?”

  “Not a bit,” Emily said. Only because Paula wouldn’t bump her for a new client. She’d rather lose a tooth than a stylist she trusted so completely she nodded off during the cut and feather. She reeled off Paula’s number. The woman repeated it twice. “Thanks.”

  “Glad to help,” Emily said. “You know, I run the Riverwalk every morning. Haven’t seen you till just recently. New in town?”

  “We just moved here from Denver,” the woman said. “We’re in The Cathedrals of Rivermist. Do you know it?”

  Emily nodded. Chicagoans identified themselves by neighborhoods or, if Catholic like her, parishes. Napervillians identified by subdivisions. In this case, a fancy-schmancy on the city’s Southwest Side. Cops couldn’t afford a garage there, let alone a house.

  “Hubby got transferred so the kids and I did, too,” the woman continued. “I started coming here as soon as I unpacked my shoes.”

  “It’s one of the best paths in the country,” Emily said. “Smooth and well maintained, beautiful views with the river and trees. You’ll like the city, too. Lots of friendly people.”

  “I’ve already met some neighbors. They do seem nice. They already invited me and my husband to join the subdivision’s volleyball team.”

  Emily bit her lip not to laugh. Should she explain what that really meant? Nah, she decided. Let her see how wild suburban life could get.

  The woman glanced Emily top to bottom, looked at her bare fingers.

  “Are you single?” she asked. “My brother’s looking.”

  “Widowed,” Emily said.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry.”

  “Me, too. He was a good guy.” She made a little shrug. “But it was a decade ago and, well, time heals.”

  “Are you seeing anyone now?”

  I don’t know anymore, Emily thought. She nodded anyway, because it was easier than explaining. “But how about you?” she parried. “Do you work?”

  “Stay-at-home mom. You?”

  “I’m a detective,” Emily said.

  “Ooh!” the woman said, clapping her hands. “How exciting! Just like the A is for Alibi gal! You know, Kinsey what’s-her-name?”

  Good thing she didn’t say Miss Marple! “I’m not a private eye,” Emily said. “I’m a police detective. In Naperville.”

  “Oh,” the woman said, clearly disappointed. “You know, I got a parking ticket the other day. Can you do anything about that?”

  Emily rolled her eyes. Off-duty cops rarely told strangers what they did because of questions like that. Even worse was, “How many people have you killed?” She wished she’d used her standard, “Uh, I’m between jobs right now.”

  “Sorry, no,” Emily said. “We don’t fix tickets. It’s a firing offense.”

  “Really? We never had to pay in New Jersey.”

  Emily made a face.

  “What’s wrong with New Jersey?” the woman demanded.

  “It’s fine,” Emily said, veering off the pavers. “I’m wincing because I’ve got a cramp.”

  “Those are awful, aren’t they?” the woman sympathized, stopping to jog in place. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Thanks for the offer, but no, I’m fine,” Emily assured, shooing her back on course. “Don’t lose your momentum. I’ll stretch a few minutes and catch up.”

  “Please do,” the woman said. “I want all the dirt on this town!”

  Emily watched till she disappeared around the bend, then plopped to the grass to work her calf. A tiny part of her wished Marty was here to do it for her.

  Marty stared at his TV while he ate yet another bachelor breakfast - gas-station doughnuts and grape juice from the carton. He knew how to cook. Just didn’t feel like it. One of the morning show hostesses - he had no idea which, he couldn’t tell one News Perky from the next - was gabbing on about “my brand-new designer boobs.” From what he could gather, she’d thought her 34-Bs “too small to keep my man interested,” so she inflated them to 38-DD while he was on a business trip. The boob-job version of This Old House, he supposed.

  He shook his head. Thank God Emily had more sense than to think he cared whether hers were tiny, huge, or covered with polka dots. Just that they were his.

  Were his . . .

  The doughnut left a powdery mess bouncing off the screen.

  The Executioner sprang as the target pulled even. He chopped his arm into her throat, clamped his hand over her mouth, and used her momentum to spin her into the shrubs. />
  “Buh-bye,” he hissed.

  The knife plunged.

  The woman screamed.

  Because of his hand, nobody heard.

  “Get a move on,” Emily ordered herself. “Massage won’t catch the Unsub.” Dehumanizing the serial killer with FBI-speak for “unidentified subject” made her stomach hurt a tiny bit less. She wished the cure for her and Marty was that simple.

  Damned impressive, that dagger, the Executioner enthused as he scrambled up the north riverbank. If I do say so myself. It worked superbly on the veal calf he’d used for thrusting practice, but a human kill presented different challenges than meat that didn’t move.

  Like Bowie, he loved - loved - using a blade. The targets knew beyond all doubt they were dying at the hands of someone who totally, thoroughly, wanted them that way.

  He smiled at how well that would work Friday.

  Emily’s Nikes slapped cadence as she rounded the curve. The delay to work out the kink allowed dawn to brighten enough to see the river rippling. Birds flitting after insect breakfasts. A tiny figure in sharp silhouette entering the SUV atop the north riverbank.

  She felt a happy shiver. Some runs were a slog, endured strictly to keep her thighs from jiggling. Today’s was an unalloyed joy, a standout. She wished she could run forever, get herself away from all the crap that was suffocating her-

  The terrified shriek grabbed Emily by the throat.

  She ripped the Glock from under her shirt and broke into a sprint.

  The Executioner sped south on Washington Street, heading for Royce Road and home. He flipped on the radio in case they identified her right away. He hoped so. Be a kick for him and Bowie to watch the frantic coverage together.

  Emily raced up to the stroller moms pointing wide-eyed at the shrubs.

  “Dead,” one breathed. “Dead.”

  Emily hissed. It was the jogger who’d minutes ago asked for Paula’s number. Her head was canted, her eyes filmy. She leaked blood from a dozen cuts. A hank of hair was cut off mid-skull and stuffed into her mouth.

  I didn’t even ask her name . . .

  She heard a freight train of steps. Nearly upon her, closing fast. She swung around, ready to trigger a killing blitz.

  It was a park district policeman, leveling his gun at her chest.

  “Drop the weapon!” he ordered. “Now!”

  Emily froze. One wrong move and he’d mow her like hay.

  “I’m a Naperville Police detective,” she said, slow and calm, letting the Glock slip from her hand without moving the rest of her body. “I have my badge. Do you want to see it?”

  The cop put a tree between them. The muzzle didn’t waver, and he didn’t reply. Smart move, she thought. Bad guys will lie about being a fellow officer, hoping you’ll relax long enough to jump you. “It’s under my T-shirt,” she continued. “My name is-”

  “Emily Thompson,” the park cop said, lowering the gun. “Thought I recognized you, but I wasn’t sure enough to take the chance. Sorry.”

  She squished into the blood to feel for a pulse.

  “Anything?” the cop asked, waving back the gathering crowd.

  “No,” Emily said. “I hope this is random, not our serial killer-”

  “Serial killer?” one mom gasped to another. “Again? God in Heaven, there’s another monster loose in Naperville! Let’s get out of here!”

  Emily slapped her head, knowing she’d just screwed up bad.

  “Serial killer” had just leaked to the public.

  “Out of my way, you idiot!” Marty roared at the minivan in front. He spotted a gap and flooded the engine past the slowpoke.

  He’d left his house a few minutes ago, heading for the station, trying to convince himself Emily was history, so move on. Lots of fish in the deep blue sea, etc.

  Then the emergency radio net blared an all-points on a female jogger just stabbed on the Riverwalk.

  He slammed the red flasher on his roof, cranked siren to max, and lit up every police radar getting there.

  7:14 a.m.

  “Don’t worry about it, Em. Really,” Branch said, patting her like a third grader. “A lesser cop could never screw up this spectacularly.”

  She winced at the sarcasm, shame turning acidic. Her slip of the lip would be all over the news the moment one of those women reached a phone.

  But something worse was closing fast.

  “Are you all right, Detective?” Cross said a moment later.

  “Fine, Chief,” she said, poking out her chin. At least she’d go down swinging. “Did you find her husband?”

  Cross nodded. “With the subdivision and arrival date you provided, dispatch figured out who she is. I sent officers to make the notification.” He lowered his close-cropped head, examining her like bull to matador.

  Here it comes, she thought. She’d get a harsh reprimand, minimum. Removal from the task force. Even fired. She desperately didn’t want that, but would understand. The media frenzy would make the investigation a thousand times harder, and she’d triggered it . . .

  “Is your calf OK enough for you to work?” Cross asked.

  She nodded, too surprised to speak.

  “Then bump us out another fifty yards,” he said, pointing to the fluttering yellow tape that squared the crime scene into a boxing ring. “The lady doesn’t need an audience.”

  “Uh, well, right away, Chief.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched.

  She watched Cross limp toward Branch, who was limping toward Annie, who was limping toward Marty. So much damage from the last serial. How much more could they take?

  Then there was Marty. A minute ago she’d watched him thunder down Jackson Avenue, engine redlined, then brake like he’d hit a tree. He leaped from the GTO and charged down the grassy slope, stumbling several times. He pulled up short when he saw her standing around, looking fit and fine. He looked at the dead woman, back at her.

  Altered course to Branch, and hadn’t once looked at her.

  Bet you wouldn’t treat Alice this way, she thought. Or her son.

  Your son.

  The son you had with another woman . . .

  Angry again, she helped the perimeter uniforms bump the tape another fifty.

  “I told her,” Marty said.

  “About your kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “We had a fight. Big one. She demanded to know what was wrong, then said she knew about Alice. Said she’d leave me if I didn’t tell her then and there. So I did.”

  “And she flipped.”

  Marty smiled thinly. “You could say that.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You done for?”

  “Don’t want to be. Might not have a choice.” Silence.

  “Damned if you do,” Branch said.

  “Damned if I don’t,” Marty agreed.

  Emily described their short conversation. Cross smiled at the ticket-fixing comment, otherwise just listened. She told him about the throw-down by the park officer, the victim’s hair stuffed in her mouth, and the silhouette at the SUV.

  “I wish I knew make and model,” she said. “But it was too dark and too far away.”

  “It was a sharp observation anyway. Good work.”

  And still no mention of my screwup. Wow. To think two years ago, I hated this man’s guts.

  She was a rookie, and he was always correcting, always criticizing, always on her back to “shape up or ship out.” But it eventually dawned that he spat minutiae because he cared so deeply about his people. Which made his carping, if not enjoyable, at least all right. Which made her pay closer attention to her tactics, surroundings, and attitude, which made her a better cop, which turned Cross’s criticisms into comments and, more and more, to compliments.

  Proving how smart I wasn’t when I first clipped on this badge.

  “You said something about a fanny pack?” Cross said.

  “She wore one at the Dandelion
Fountain,” Emily said. “Blue with white stripes. No brand name.” She side-stepped for the coroner and his wheelie of gear. “It was gone when I got to the body. The killer must have taken it.”

  “Suggesting robbery as the motive.”

  “Or it’s the serial, and he tried to kill me,” Emily said, watching Annie open her truck and hand Marty a violin case. Her ears burned. Why was her best friend trading with . . .

  No. She couldn’t bring herself to call Marty “the enemy.” Even thinking it made her sick. That meant something, she supposed. She didn’t know what.

  “Why do you say that?” Cross asked.

  Emily explained the jogger’s comment about their similar hair. “She kind of looks like me, Chief,” she said, shifting her weight to ease the bubbling in her calf. “We’ve got the same height, body structure, hair, and facial shape.”

  “Five-six, athletic, chestnut, oval.”

  “We’re both wearing Nikes and band shirts, and the sun wasn’t quite up yet. Maybe the killer was targeting me and got her by mistake.”

  Cross tugged on his chin, thinking.

  “Possibly,” he said. “He did use a knife, and the attack was brutal and efficient. But he didn’t leave matches. Or break her nose.”

  “True.”

  Cross stretched. “Our serial is meticulous to a fault. If you were the target, no way he wouldn’t leave his full signature. Plus, the other serial victims weren’t robbed, and their hair wasn’t cut off.”

  “So you’re leaning toward a mugger,” she said.

  “An addict, given the frenzy of the attack,” Cross said. “I’ll throw your theory in the mix, because I might be wrong. But the evidence suggests you weren’t the target.”

  Emily closed her eyes, nodded. “Someone needs a fix so an entire family dies,” she said, recalling the “hubby got transferred so the kids and I did, too.”

  “It rains,” Cross said, “even in Camelot.”

  9:41 a.m.

  “Got a minute?”

  “Sure, boss,” Johnny Sanders said, looking up from the execution documents papering his desk. “What’s up?”