The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1)

by Patrick Kanouse

  “The phrase on the desk.”

  Kara nodded. “If I killed him with no message, then only I knew who he really was. I get away with it, but only I know. Everyone needs to know.”

  Drexel took a step forward. “What about the syringe?”

  “When it all went to hell, I thought it was my way out. Just maybe. If one of Tunney’s goons went down, so much the better, right? Right? Get some other bad people caught. They deserved it the way they used humans for those fights. They deserved to be hurt. But. But I hurt other people—including you. No one else deserved to be hurt or die. And that happened.” She stepped back. “But I’ve seen what prison can do.”

  “Don’t think about it.” He dropped to his knees and grabbed his pistol, raising it up, though he knew he could not shoot her without at the same time sending her over the edge.

  “I’ve already thought it.”

  “This was all so well planned. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.”

  “It isn’t. It wasn’t meant to be this way. But everything goes wrong somehow. Things happen you don’t expect to happen. Paths unforeseen. You take what you’re given.”

  “So what happened?”

  “You fool.” She looked behind her. “You happened.” She put one foot over the railing, along the inch or so of edging there.

  The snow was swirling about, and behind her, Chicago glowed intensely in the dark. The snow churning in the sky made vivid the city’s lights. The Aon Center’s speckled granite seemed exceptional. The old Mather Tower and Two Prudential Plaza added to the spectacle.

  “Don’t. Please.” He lowered his pistol. “Please. You met me for a reason.”

  “You’re a fool. It was so I could tell you in person. I knew it was a matter of time before I was caught. If not now, maybe next month or next year. I just can’t wait to be caught. I never meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry.” She looked behind her and turned back to him. “Drexel.” She looked at him and the look was now of determination, purpose. “Having access. Who the Bull knew. Who I knew. I learned things.” The snowflakes whipping around behind her glowed in the light. “Zora. What happened to her was no accident. It’s on Hal’s computer.”

  His stomach felt that intense plummeting of shock, of the flight response, of the horror of knowing what he knew all along but had never, not once, allowed himself to think until that moment.

  “Drexel.”

  He snapped his attention back to her.

  She lifted her foot on the inside of the railing and as she began to fall, using the railing as leverage she said, “I hope you can love again,” though the words themselves were caught up in a gust of wind that inflated her parka, whipped her long hair in a cascade of strands. A wisp of her Burberry scarf against the lights of Chicago before disappearing.

  Drexel sprinted as best he could in the snow to the edge, though he knew it was a pointless run. He imagined her falling, facing skyward the entire time, weirdly peaceful, eyes closed, letting the end come. Perhaps an instant of grotesque pain—just long enough for the nerves to register to the brain the trauma and then death.

  He looked over the edge. The wind had pushed her fall to his left and back so that she did not land in the river. The snow caught the light as they swirled about him in the rain, his face drenched. The city’s lights illuminated the ground below, where she landed. From the terrace, her body did not look broken but caught in mid-stride. Drexel slid down and sat in the snow and cried. Cried like when Zora had died. He screamed into the wind.

  Once said, no unsaying.

  Chapter 30

  Drexel could have been reprimanded or worse, but even Sobieski could call it a day when a murderer was caught, self-confessed, and no trial needed. Lots of paperwork, but easier paperwork in the end. Cheaper for the city. What had happened could now be recorded and filed. Case closed. Crime solved.

  Victor nodded his head and patted Drexel’s shoulder. Victor knew there was more to the story, but he knew not every detail needs to be revealed. People are allowed their mysteries. He told Drexel to go home and stay home for a few days, but not before pulling out a bottle of scotch. The Highland Park forty-year old. Victor pulled out two plastic cups from his desk drawer and poured a bit of the scotch in each. Drexel drank it and enjoyed it. Each bottle cost two thousand, and they were drinking it from plastic cups.

  For once, Drexel listened to Victor about staying home for a few days. He stayed in the hospital with Ryan and Lily. He watched the re-making of a relationship, a healing, but Ryan and Lily had less far to heal than Drexel and she did. Like most relationships, in reality, not one thing or event had caused the final break. Rather a series of perceived slights, clear wrongs, and stubbornness that culminated in the final rift. And not one thing would fix it. One thing never fixed anything. He was not sure they would heal, but they had started on a path back and made a turn. Ryan, as usual, had been the unwitting catalyst.

  When their brother transferred from the regular unit to the rehab ward, Drexel saw Lily off at O’Hare, flying back to her life with Wayne the doctor, her law, and the hip city of Seattle. And he, who had filled up Hart’s food and water bowls, spontaneously bought a ticket for Sarasota, Florida. He had no bags packed, but he flew south, away from the cold. No visitors were allowed to see Ryan for several days, so it seemed perfect timing. Drexel checked into a cheap motel near the beach, bought a pair of swim trunks, t-shirts, and beach towels, and spent the next two days on Anna Maria Island, on fine-grained white sand and crystal clear waters. Too short, but he was a cop on a cop’s salary. He managed to sneak in a Tampa Bay Rays game. David Price threw eleven strikeouts in a winning effort over the Orioles.

  He read Montaigne’s Essays, staring out into the blue waters of the Gulf, drinking cold beer from a small cooler. He and Zora had often spoke of retiring to Florida, a place she had been in her youth, a place she had remembered fondly. He watched the hypnotic spell of the gulf washing on the beach, the gentle rolling of the waves, the bright sun, the relaxed attitudes all around. The Lake Michigan beaches only approximated this sense. Here it felt more real. Perhaps because you knew it was an ocean and the skyscrapers did not linger ever in sight. Maybe because it was different.

  Zora would have been able to photograph it, to capture it effortlessly (or so it appeared to the viewer) in a still scene. He always thought of her. Day in and day out, but on that beach he thought even more about her. And at that moment, Zora’s death seemed farther away. Instead, her joy was more present. And though he could not photograph it like she could, he did pocket a shell. A junonia or Juno’s volute, named after the Roman goddess. He put the shell on the nightstand beside his bed.

  When Drexel returned to the job, he learned the hard drive had yet to be found. No trace of it in Kara’s possessions. And no dollars would be spent looking for it. The case did not need it.

  Gordon Tunney’s fiefdom of illegal fighting continued. All the evidence Drexel had unearthed was handed over to the Organized Crime unit, where it disappeared.

  Police fished Jerry Winston’s body three weeks later from the South Branch of the Chicago River. Tammy was never found, and Jerry’s case went cold even after a dogged effort by Doggett. Even that man could not close every case.

  Lloyd Pritchard took over TG Enterprises, his dream of owning his own company and not inheriting it complete. Pritchard sent a note to Drexel’s apartment in the weeks after, commending him on his excellent police work. He offered to assist Drexel in any way in the future, hinting he had connections in Chicago PD. Drexel was not sure what to make of the note and tossed it for want of an answer.

  And winter continued. More snow fell, filling yards and parking lots. Dirty piles of snow eyesores throughout the city. A sheen of white across Lake Michigan. The farthest covering of ice on the lake in decades. A few long weeks later, crocus would rise, and spring-like air would settle. A last salvo from w
inter just to remind everyone before its months-long retreat. All the while, more people were getting killed. Some for revenge. Some for love. Some for money. The same stuff that drove people to kill since humanity first learned the skill. When he left for home that night, a copy of his wife’s Chicago PD file went with him. Somewhere a murderer was out there, and Drexel meant to catch him.

  DID YOU LIKE The Shattered Bull?

  I hope you enjoyed The Shattered Bull. If you did, I would be grateful for an honest review on Goodreads or Amazon. Thank you!

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The Shattered Bull. Copyright © 2016 by Patrick Kanouse. All rights reserved. For more information, www.patrickkanouse.com.

  Published by Walter Glenn Publishing.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  While this is the second novel I have published, it is the first that I really shopped around for a publisher. Many of my friends and family read it first in its science fiction state: my parents, Doug (my brother), Meg, Pete, Wes, Doug (my friend), Larry, Mats, Dan, Abbie, and Brett. A few of you even read it again in its contemporary mystery setting.

  Thanks to Christina and JK for reading it and begging for the sequel (it’s coming!).

  I also want to thank Cherry Weiner. She originally took on agenting this book and made me think about the original science fiction version in a contemporary mystery light. I found, during that rewrite, that I liked and preferred that setting.

  And thank you to my family in southern Indiana who have supported my writing endeavors. Go Rays!

  Thanks must go to my wife, of course, who has read it several times, provided valuable feedback, and looked at innumerable covers. This book is the better for her efforts.

  Thank you all for sticking with me during the long road from writing, revising, and finally publishing.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Patrick is a mystery author, poet, and technical writer. His poetry has appeared in many journals and websites.

  He works for Pearson Education, an educational publisher with offices worldwide, as the director of content creation and development platforms and teaches business report writing at IUPUI.

  He lives with his wife, Gina, and their spoiled Yorkie, Kennedy, in Westfield, a suburb north of Indianapolis.

  Other Books by Patrick Kanouse

  The Clearing

  1979. The Cold War, a troubled family, and murder

  Vietnam veteran Detective Dean Wallace’s fondness for whiskey ended his New York City detective career and marriage. Back in his home town working for his father, the Chief of Police, the murder of a young man with a copy of The Communist Manifesto, leads Wallace down a tangle of paths and connections with a local biker gang, a tight-knit group of friends, and an unpopular girlfriend. As Dean strives to find Billy’s killer, his shunned brother returns to the family, stirring up haunting memories—memories Dean would prefer to keep buried in the past.

  Available now.