The Cruelest Cut

by Rick Reed

  Jack, also, had an idea who had leaked to the news media, but it didn’t really matter, because from the look of resignation on the chief’s face, he was sure they had bigger problems.

  Pope stood up and said, “I think I should call the city attorney.”

  “We’ll wait,” Maddy said, and Chief Pope left his own office to make the call in private.

  Maddy looked around the walls of the chief’s office. She noticed the diploma from the University of Louisville, awarded to Marlin L. Pope, master of science in criminology. In another frame next to it, was a master’s degree in business administration, an MBA, from Indiana State University.

  Liddell saw her checking out the diplomas and said, “He’s a smart man. We all respect him.”

  Maddy feigned a hurt look. “I respect him,” she said.

  “I’m just sayin’,” Liddell said in a cautioning tone. Wires looked as if he wanted to defend Maddy, but then, seeing the size of his opponent, he opted to keep quiet.

  Chief Pope came back in the office and sat behind his desk. “Okay, this is what we are willing to do,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Indiana State Parole Office was in a yellow-brick building with a full glass front that had been built around 3000 BC, so it was pretty new as far as government buildings go. The heavy glass door in front sported the Great Seal of the State of Indiana, which looked like some guy with an axe chasing a buffalo through the woods. Jack had never seen a buffalo until he took a trip to Montana a couple of years ago, but in the great way-back there must have been buffalo in Indiana. Guys with axes probably chased them all out of the state.

  Jack entered and walked down a narrow hallway to the receptionist window, making note of the fist-sized holes in the drywall on both sides where misunderstood criminals had vented their frustration at the attempts of the state to keep them from reoffending.

  The receptionist, Ms. Johnson-Heddings, sat in her usual spot behind the thick glass window, with her lined and leathery hatchet face, and her hair pulled back in a severe bun so tight it seemed to give her a face-lift.

  “You’re looking especially lovely today,” Jack remarked with what he hoped was a disarming smile.

  Her face cracked into a smile that could melt the heat shields off the space shuttle, but Jack had learned not to look directly into it.

  “Do you have an appointment, sir?” she asked icily.

  Thinking that her hair was pulled back so tight that it might have caused some brain damage, Jack said, “It’s me. Jack!” He smiled and pinched his own cheek in a grandmotherly way. “You know—your favorite son. Little Jacky.”

  “You’re not my son,” she said severely.

  “Can you tell Susan I’m here?” he asked.

  “Jack. Come on back.” Susan’s voice came from around a corner.

  He did a short drumbeat on the counter. “It’s been great seeing you again,” he said and walked down the hall, feeling the heat of her stare.

  Susan’s office always looked like an earthquake had hit. She sat behind a pile of books and folders that Jack knew had a desk under them somewhere. He’d been to her house a couple of times and always wondered how the clean freak that lived there could have an office like this.

  “I’d give you a pure and chaste peck on the cheek, but Ms. You-Know-Who might forcefully evict me,” he said and was rewarded with a chuckle.

  “She takes her work very seriously, Jack. Be nice,” Susan chastised him.

  “Okay. I’ll try.” Jack looked for a chair, and then remembered that there were three in the office the last time he was there. Now he couldn’t see any lump that looked like it might have a chair under it, so he gave up and stood.

  “I need you to do something for me, Susan,” he said.

  “That’s it?” Susan said, getting up and coming around her pile of papers. “No foreplay? No ‘My, you look stunning’ or even a ‘Hello’?”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a full-body kiss that made his knees sag. He was still standing there as she sat back in her chair, smiling. “Okay, now what else can I do for you?”

  Jack cleared his throat and to his shame actually did look around to see if Ms. Heddings was lurking nearby with a Bible and a leather belt. “Wow! Okay,” he said, and then told her about the developments of the day—the murders, the notes, the imbedding of the news media, and his reason for being there, the personal nature of the notes.

  Susan was a pro, but she seemed shocked by the revelation of the notes. “I heard about the children, Jack,” she said. “I started to call and see how you were doing, but I know how you hate to be fussed over.”

  Jack looked at her with renewed respect. It was great to have a relationship with someone who could understand what you were doing and give you the support you really needed without reminding you how much you needed mental help. He would never have been able to talk to Katie, his ex-wife, about any of this. She was a sixth-grade teacher, and her worst day was a kid throwing up in the classroom. He envied Katie that innocence and had always believed that keeping his dark view of the world from her was a noble thing. But it was different with Susan. His world was almost the same as hers. He didn’t have to sugarcoat.

  “I need you to go through your records and see if anyone is out on parole that might be doing these things, sending these notes—someone who would have a personal grudge against me,” he said.

  “Already on it,” she said and indicated a stack of files on the floor beside the doorway. “Ms. Heddings made copies for you.” Jack raised an eyebrow.

  “She’s been listening to the news, too, Jack. I think she has a soft spot for you. We didn’t know about the notes, of course, so those are all the files we came up with as possible for the killer. On top is a list of all of our parolees, but there are hundreds of those.”

  “Well, I had better get back,” Jack said and collected the folders from the floor.

  “If you need anything…” Susan said.

  “This will get me started. Thanks,” he said.

  Ms. Johnson-Heddings was scowling as he stopped at her counter.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Jack said, indicating the stack of folders.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  After Jack left, her face softened. That man can really be a smart-ass, she thought, and allowed herself a smirk.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When Jack entered the back door of headquarters he became aware of the curious looks he was getting from other detectives and uniformed officers. They were milling about in the hallways, seeming to work, but no one was really doing anything. It reminded Jack of a school of fish swimming aimlessly and only reacting to things that threatened the group.

  “Detective Murphy,” a loud voice said from the detective lieutenant’s open doorway, “so nice you could join us.”

  Jack recognized the voice and immediately realized that there was a shark among them, and Jack was the target. His fear was confirmed as the roomful of detectives and uniformed officers seemed to shimmer and disappear.

  “You’re working late,” Jack said to Deputy Chief Dick, who was sitting in the lieutenant’s chair as stiff and straight as a mannequin, and like a mannequin, had no real spine.

  “Come in and have a seat,” Dick commanded, although the only other chair in the tiny office was occupied by a harried-looking detective lieutenant named Lou Gilbert.

  Gilbert looked around as if he was wondering if another chair was in his office that he had never noticed before. Then, realizing that he was being dismissed, he cleared his throat and excused himself to go and do something administrative. When he left the room, Jack pushed the door shut and sat down. The wooden seat was still warm. He wondered how much warmer it would be when he left.

  Deputy Chief Dick tried to stare him down, lost, and turned his head. “Anything new in the case, Detective?” he asked at last.

  Jack noticed that Dick had failed to c
all him by name. Dick’s way of reminding him that he was just an underling. “Which case?” Jack paused and then added, “Deputy Chief.” Department protocol demanded that a deputy chief be called “Chief” unless the actual chief was present, in which case you would call both men by their actual rank. It was all very confusing. But calling Double Dick “Chief” was like passing a kidney stone. It was hard not to disrespect the man.

  Dick pretended to ignore the slight and handed Jack a business card. Jack looked at the card. Dick had written two numbers on the back of it.

  “Those are my mobile and home numbers,” Dick explained. “I want you to keep me apprised of any developments.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said and pocketed the card. He had every intention of throwing it away as soon as he left.

  “And,” Dick said, pausing for effect, “Maddy Brooks will be in touch with you this evening. You will extend every courtesy to her and her cameraman.”

  “Why isn’t she here now?” Jack asked.

  “She has some business to clear up, and the station has some legal matters to discuss with her,” Dick began to explain, and then realized that Jack was being facetious. “Listen to me carefully, Detective Murphy. You seem to be an intelligent man—” he began.

  Jack smiled, tried to look bashful, and said, “Thank you, sir.”

  “Dammit, Murphy,” Dick said, and then composed himself. “Listen, Jack. I know we’ve had our personal disagreements. But this killer…” He seemed to be genuinely concerned even if he couldn’t decide how to address Jack. “This is no time for personality clashes. I know you want to catch this killer. And I know you will do your best.”

  Jack wondered what the punchline was. It wasn’t normal for Double Dick to be complimentary. He had to be up to something.

  “So, what do you want, Deputy Chief?” Jack asked point-blank.

  “Believe it or not, I want to help you,” he said and smiled. “I’m even going to assign another detective to help you.”

  Jack’s shoulders slumped. Now he knew what Dick was up to. He was going to put one of his cronies on Jack’s team to do his evil master’s bidding. The question was, which of the worst detectives in the department would he saddle Jack with? He didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

  “Detective Jansen has been told to report to you,” Dick said, and before Jack could protest he added, “and I want you to bring him up to speed on everything. After all, he has some knowledge of the Lewis case.”

  Jack almost said, “Yeah, Jansen was the one that screwed up the case,” but he caught himself in time.

  Seeing the look on Jack’s face, the deputy chief stood, straightened his clothing, and said, “This is not a request, Detective. You will do this or find yourself on administrative leave. Do you understand?”

  Jack stared at the power-hungry, ladder-climbing asshole of a career politician and nodded. He didn’t trust himself to respond verbally.

  Jack left the meeting with the deputy chief with his head swimming. Jansen was the worst of the worst—a black cloud. He was officially assigned to the Missing Persons Unit, but in reality was a missing person himself. Jack had seen the man only a few times in the past year, and then it was as he was skulking down a hallway like a shadow. This was just getting better and better.

  He was so angry when he left the lieutenant’s office that he’d forgotten the files he’d gotten from Susan. He went back down the hallway and knocked on the lieutenant’s door, which was closed now.

  “Come in,” came a timid voice, and Jack opened the door.

  Lieutenant Gilbert sat behind his desk in the seat Deputy Chief Dick had so recently occupied. The difference between the two men was more than mere difference in rank. Where Dick was pompously officious, tall, and gangly, Gilbert was short, grossly overweight, and so pleasant that he made you want to sit and visit a spell. Gilbert was flipping through the folders, and Jack felt a twinge of compassion.

  “I used to love this work,” Gilbert said.

  It didn’t sound like a question, and Jack didn’t have a satisfactory response, so he collected his files and left. He could hear the lieutenant whistling a happy tune and wondered how the man had managed to keep his sanity all these years. But then, maybe he isn’t sane, Jack thought glumly.

  As he walked down the hall toward the detective squad room, he saw Liddell coming from Records with a stack of files at least as thick as his own.

  “Hey, Jack,” Liddell said, puffing from the heavy load. “If a man can be measured by the number of people that want him dead, you’re top dog.”

  “Very funny, Bigfoot,” Jack said.

  “These are the files of people you arrested that might want you dead,” Liddell said, as if to prove his point.

  Jack looked at the stack. “I’ve arrested that many people?”

  Liddell laughed. “No. These are just the ones I thought might want to kill you. I couldn’t carry the rest.”

  “You missed your calling as a stand-up comedian,” Jack said, and added, “He’s not going to be in there.”

  “How do you know, O Great One?” Liddell asked.

  “Because if it was that easy, you’d be able to figure it out by yourself.”

  “Bite me,” Liddell said.

  “You first,” Jack answered, and they entered the detectives’ office with their files.

  Maddy Brooks was sitting at Jack’s desk, looking through the murder case files and sipping from a Starbucks cup, as the detectives entered.

  “How are you doing, Maddy?”

  Liddell dropped his weight into a chair, and said, “Wassup?” while slouching like a gangbanger. Maddy ignored him and came around Jack’s desk.

  “What’s all this?” She motioned at the stack of records the men had set on the desks.

  “That stuff. Oh, Jack’s a popular guy,” Liddell said and grinned. Maddy leaned over to read a file label and deliberately gave the men a view of her cleavage.

  Her eyes widened, and she asked, “Are these all cases you are involved in, Jack?”

  “Past tense,” Jack responded blankly.

  “You must have some fascinating stories,” she said.

  Jack sat down and stared at her. “I’ve been ordered to cooperate with you. You don’t have to suck up to me. Both Liddell and I know that you couldn’t give a shit about us or anything we’ve done, or are doing, except how it will affect a story for you.”

  Maddy looked as if she had been slapped in the face, but Jack had to give her credit—she recovered fast. She sat back, crossing one long leg over another, shamelessly allowing her skirt to ride up her thigh. “Okay. Let’s start over, guys,” she said neutrally. “What are we doing with these files?”

  Jack handed her a short stack. “We’re going to look through them and see if there’s anything that would make someone want to kill people and leave messages for me.”

  Maddy gave him a smug look, and said, “I thought you said the messages weren’t about you?”

  “Look for any psychiatric reports, past violent behavior, childhood problems, things like that,” Liddell suggested.

  Maddy shot him a contemptuous look. “I am an investigative reporter, not your secretary,” she said, stressing the word investigative. She hesitated as if she had something else to say.

  “Spit it out,” Jack said.

  Maddy gathered herself up and looked at Jack. “Well, I was curious about the notes and went to see our corporate shrink. Just to see if he could give me a psychological profile on the type of person that would write those notes.” She looked from Liddell to Jack, seeking approval but finding only closed expressions. “And he said that he didn’t have any experience in this sort of thing,” she continued.

  “Well, duh,” Jack said.

  “You didn’t let me finish,” she protested. “He said that all the notes seemed to refer to nursery rhymes or riddles, and he gave me this book from his office.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a thin, hardback book whose cove
r had the picture of a grandmotherly looking woman, riding on a large, white goose.

  Liddell chuckled and said, “Imagine that, Jack. A psychiatrist who just happens to have a Mother Goose book in his office? I wonder which one of his clients that one is for.” They both looked at Maddy, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “He said that most people think Mother Goose rhymes are for kids—you know, entertainment—but in reality Mother Goose rhymes are all about violence and death,” she said.

  Neither man spoke. “I’m just telling you what he told me,” Maddy said. “Don’t stare at me like that.”

  Liddell looked at the stack of files and shook his head. “Well, thanks for that, but we’ve got some files to go through, and I’m getting hungry.”

  “But I think he may be on to something,” Maddy protested, and flipped through the pages of the book, stopped at a page, and began reading out loud, “There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many children she didn’t know what to do. She gave them some broth without any bread, she whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.”

  Liddell looked up from the folder he had seemed absorbed in.

  “That was the last note. The three kids,” Jack said and remembered the writing in blood on the wall of the tiny room, and the little bodies beaten and put to bed. “So many children,” he said. “The killer was quoting part of the rhyme. Let me see that.” Maddy pushed the book across the desk. He flipped to a page and read out loud, “Little Tommy Tittlemouse lived in a little house, he caught fishes in other men’s ditches.”

  He stressed the last three words, “other men’s ditches.” Just like the note, he thought, and near the back of the thin book he found what he was looking for:

  Punch and Judy

  Fought for a pie;

  Punch gave Judy

  A knock in the eye.

  Says Punch to Judy,