Redeeming the Night

by Kristine Overbrook

  He was armed. Not good. But being under fire should distract him from the front and give her team the time they needed to enter. With adrenaline pumping, she fought to keep tight control of her emotions as she flung the door open and ran through, following closely behind Adams.

  They entered into a front room left bare except for blinds and curtains over the front picture window. Motioning the other three to check the rest of the house, she and Adams moved through the room to the archway on their right.

  This room was also completely empty. Not even dust gathered in the corners. In this room, however, the sweet smell of rotted meat filled her nostrils. She’d smelled worse, but it didn’t bode well. She discovered another door to her left. This one appeared able to swing both ways.

  The shotgun blasts were coming from behind that door. Lydia and Adams set up to enter. She motioned to Adams that she was going to look first. Bracing in anticipation of the horrors she may witness, she pushed the door open a crack. The smell of urine and ammonia burned her nose as she peered inside for an instant.

  A beaker with tubes attached over a burner sat on a table in the corner. Boxes of sinus medicine and rat poison were stacked on the floor against the wall. Bags of what could only be crystal meth lay piled on the counter next to a set of old-fashioned scales.

  Scanning, she caught sight of the killer. A very large man, about six foot two, stood in profile and glanced out the window of the back door, shotgun at the ready. Two inches of spotty growth covered his chin. His matted and greasy hair hung limp around his ears. Sweat and blood stained his clothes.

  Then the man froze, ceasing his ragged growling gasps. His long nose sniffed the air as he turned. Barring his teeth in a vicious sneer, he swung the shotgun around and fired, blasting a plate-sized hole in the door.

  As the door swung back from the blast, Lydia dropped to a knee, kept the door wedged open a second, and fired two rounds before spinning away. Both shots took the killer in the chest.

  A scream that sounded more like a howl came from the murderer as he fired twice more. One shot took out the bottom corner of the door. The other exploded through the doorjamb inches from her elbow.

  Adams caught the door on its swing and held it open for Lydia to take aim. Ferocious gunfire came through the back door. Again, she peered into the kitchen to see if the killer was down.

  Pushed against the kitchen table by the gunfire coming through the rear entrance, the killer growled. His abdomen appeared riddled with wounds and blood streamed onto the floor, yet he still stood with his gun up and returned fire.

  “Watch the beakers!” She yelled the precaution as she aimed for the man’s head. One wrong move and they’d go up in flames.

  The murderer turned at the sound of her voice. His ice-blue eyes locked with hers, and he grinned as she fired twice into his head.

  The look in his eyes made her blood run cold. Even as his head rocked back, he let out a blood-curdling howl, but he just wouldn’t go down. God, how is he still moving? He let the shotgun fall from his hands as he stepped toward her. His stare burned with a pleasure too focused to be drug-induced.

  Again she fired, putting two more rounds into his skull. He fell on the table, hitting the lab. Flames exploded over the wall, spreading quickly. Damn.

  “Get out of here!” Lydia ordered. Her officers moved out of the house, away from the flames and rolling black smoke. She glanced over her shoulder at the man she had tracked for months. Flames licked at his clothes as he lay in the wreckage. She’d wanted to bring him to justice, but that wasn’t an option now.

  You will be judged by a higher power today, she thought, as she exited amid a cloud of smoke.

  The fire trucks had arrived. Lydia ran to the fire chief and reached out her hand. “You should know there was a meth lab inside and the body of our perp is in the kitchen.”

  The chief nodded and turned to do his job. She turned to her men, now gathered around their cars, waiting for her orders. The massive fire raging behind her illuminated their soot–covered faces.

  It had been a long night. A quick head count told her she hadn’t lost anyone else. Her men were proud, and the pleasure at taking this criminal off the streets was infectious.

  She smiled. “Good work, guys.”

  “You got him, Davis,” said Sergeant Adams.

  “We got him,” she corrected.

  The other officers mirrored their grins, white teeth and eyes bright in the dimness of the evening, despite their fatigue. Their zeal improved her already good mood.

  “Yup, no matter how hopped up he was, no way he walked out of there with a bullet in his head and covered in flames.” She turned to look at the fire. It still raged, but the fire crews had it under control.

  People crowded the nearby yards to view the spectacle. “Everyone loves to watch a fire,” she muttered. She shook her head and ordered everyone to the precinct. With the exciting stuff over, they had paperwork to start. They grumbled as they headed for their vehicles. She chuckled and moved to her SUV.

  “Lieutenant, can you make a statement?”

  Lydia’s shoulders slumped. Ryan Williams, a reporter for the Daily Times. Covering the murders, he’d dogged her every move for the last six months. She suspected he listened to his police scanner like most people listened to the normal radio.

  She turned and looked up into a pair of magnificent green eyes. He stood several inches taller than her. He had long brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail and a closely trimmed beard, which made him look more like a biker than a prominent reporter.

  A roguish smile played across his lips. “Were you able to apprehend the Bestial Butcher?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why do you insist on giving these whackos names? All it serves to do is raise them to the status of rock stars. It gives poor, twisted kids an avenue to stardom. Oh, I’m gonna be bigger than Jack the Ripper.” She gave Williams an icy glare and turned away.

  “Did you get him?” His voice sounded strained.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I shot him between the eyes. He collapsed and set fire to himself and the house.” She waved at the inferno. “No one could live through that. We’ll be holding a press conference later if you want more information.” She shook her head and escaped to her car.

  • • •

  Shaking off the effect of Detective Davis’ eyes, brown streaked with gold, Ryan caught his breath. Her straight, light brown hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail at the nape of her neck swung slightly as she walked away. He enjoyed watching her walk. The view was a perk of following her around. She had an athletic body that confirmed the Pilates classes he’d learned she took three times a week.

  He sought the same thing she did. He wanted the Butcher as much, if not more.

  When he’d read several months ago that Lydia Davis was the detective assigned to the case, he knew she could track down the killer. He had to pull several strings, almost to the snapping point, to get the assignment.

  The result pleased his boss. Because of the trouble the police had tracking the Bestial Butcher, several of his stories caused the paper to sell out hours after hitting the newsstand. People wrote in to give him hints and tips about who they thought the Butcher was and where they thought he hid.

  Once he began passing on this information to the police, it became easier for Lydia to allow him to observe and question. She still didn’t like him “tagging along,” as she called it. However, she no longer threatened to arrest him when he showed up at a scene.

  In fact, one of these tips started the action tonight. As the blaze consumed the remains of the house, Ryan scratched his chin thoughtfully. He climbed into his Jeep. He needed to get in place for the press conference.

  • • •

  Lydia eyed the collection of reporters waiting on the steps of the police station. Cameramen set up equipment along the back of a crowd. Reporters talked among themselves while they waited for her and the police chief to appear and step up to the bouqu
et of microphones that would catch their every word.

  Inside, Lydia closed her eyes as she took a cool drink from a water fountain. Anything to quiet her shaking stomach. She hated this part of her job. She could handle a group of officers, the chief, or a stone–cold killer, but every time she stood in front of a group of reporters, she shook like a leaf.

  “Simple stage fright. Nothing to worry about. You’ll get used to it,” they’d told her when she first made detective.

  She’d been a detective for five years, and her stomach still did acrobatics when she had to talk in front of a large crowd. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the butterflies into a tight ball. Then she stood ready to face the cameras.

  The chief of police, a short, balding man with salt–and–pepper hair and mustache, stomped down the hall in her direction. Although he couldn’t weigh more than 145 pounds soaking wet, Chief Fairweather waddled like a man three times his size.

  An injury when he worked vice forced him to desk duty. His dedication to the force and his reputation for honesty got him elected as chief of police. He had an evident air of authority as soon as he entered a room.

  As he approached Lydia, he winked. “Let’s do this,” he said. He was a great man.

  She accompanied him through the doors, and the assembled mass of reporters quieted.

  The chief stepped to the microphones. “Okay, the criminal known as the Bestial Butcher is presumed to be dead, killed in a shootout when my detective and several officers attempted to apprehend him. It also appears he was a drug dealer. As we speak, the fire department is putting out a blaze that destroyed him and the vacant house where we believe he’s been living. Once the fire is completely out, we’ll have forensic teams going over the area, and the coroner will remove and inspect the body.”

  He looked out over the reporters’ heads, directly into the cameras. “Because of the dedication of the police force, another criminal is off the streets.” Again, he looked at the reporters. “We will now field questions.”

  The reporters clamored. The chief pointed to a woman from Channel Sixteen News.

  “So, how many people were victims of the Butcher?”

  “So far, we can attribute twenty-four slayings to him. Once his body is in the coroner’s office, DNA will be taken, and we will try to match other homicides to the Butcher.”

  “Can you give us some background on the killings?”

  Lydia glanced at the chief, and at his nod, she responded. “At first, the laceration patterns on the victims appeared as if an animal had attacked them. In fact, after the first victim, police assumed they looked for a rabid animal.” Through act of sheer will, she kept her limbs from betraying her nerves.

  “Only after the body count increased did homicide get called in; the killer was human. He hunted in an area too widespread for an animal to traverse. Several victims were attacked inside their apartments. We considered it unlikely a rabid dog would manage to go up five flights of stairs to attack a single individual in a secured building.”

  More clamoring, then a man from CNN asked, “Is it true that all of the victims were women?”

  Lydia answered, “No. In fact, there were several men. There was no discrimination in affluence, race, or sex. This, in particular, made it difficult to profile the killer.”

  The same man asked, “What led you to believe you could make an arrest this evening?”

  “We had a tip that he might strike again. During the stakeout, he appeared and attacked an officer, who was acting as bait.” Everyone started talking and Lydia raised her hand. “The officer wore protective gear and is in the county hospital with his family. He is doing fine.”

  A man with the Times asked, “From whom did you get this tip?”

  The chief stepped forward. “C’mon, Dave, you know most tips are anonymous.”

  The conference continued with the reporters asking more questions about the victims and motives of the Butcher. The butterflies in Lydia’s stomach once again took flight. She shifted uncomfortably. Surely this couldn’t go on much longer. She scanned the journalists and noticed Ryan Williams. He stood at the far edge of the crowd, holding up a mini recorder. A flush warmed her face. Perhaps with the case over they could go out for drinks or dinner or —

  “And have you already been assigned another case, detective?”

  Still looking at Williams, Lydia startled at the question. She stammered at the reporter who spoke. “Um … My next case … ” She glanced at Ryan and he winked. “Um … ”

  The chief gave Lydia an amused look. “The detective will be going on a well–deserved vacation.”

  Surprised, she somehow managed a smile and a nod.

  “All right, everyone, thank you and goodnight.” He lifted a hand in a wave, then touched Lydia’s elbow. She followed him through the doors.

  “What the hell was that?” he muttered under his breath as they walked to his office. “That was the most vacant expression I have ever seen. And I have never seen one on you.” Walking three feet ahead, he missed Lydia’s shrug.

  “Sorry, I spaced out for a second.” She entered his office. The only thing that distinguished it from hers was the sign on the desk, “Harold R. Fairweather, Chief of Police.”

  “Look, Davis.” He motioned for her to sit as he rounded the desk and did the same. “I know you haven’t slept for six months.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I’m serious about the vacation. Take a couple days off. Go visit friends. Get a spot on the beach. Heck, sit around in your bathrobe and veg at the television for hours on end. I don’t care. But you’re not going to start a new case until you recoup.”

  “Chief — ” she started to protest.

  “I mean it. Don’t argue with me. Get out. See you in three days.” He picked up her case report and a pen. He made a show of reading for a bit, then looked at her. “You still here?”

  Lydia smiled. “No, sir. Just left.” She exited, shaking her head.

  He took care of his force. Everyone commented on how talking to him was like talking to a father. She didn’t remember hers, having transferred from foster home to foster home most of her life.

  Shaking off emptiness, she headed to her office to grab her things. As she mulled over what to do with her newly acquired time, she smiled. First thing would be to soak in a hot bath.

  “Taking a vacation?” Sergeant Adams looked up from his desk. When she gave him a quizzical look, he explained, “E–mail already went out.”

  “I’ve been ordered to take a couple of days off.” She shrugged.

  “Any plans?”

  “I hadn’t really thought much beyond getting cleaned up.”

  Adams laughed. “Make the most of it. Go somewhere you don’t have to think too much.”

  Lydia chuckled as she went into her office and grabbed her tattered backpack from the corner where she’d tossed it three days ago. She’d lived out of her pack on more than one occasion.

  Driving home, she wondered what she would do for her vacation. She really needed peace and quiet, somewhere outside the city. Maybe spend a couple days hiking or fishing. No neighbors thudding on the walls or sirens screaming down the street. And where the loudest sounds were birds tweeting. She smiled. Three days might be enough to unwind.

  • • •

  Ryan turned away as the press conference ended. He enjoyed seeing Lydia flustered. She controlled herself so well that he took great pleasure in baiting her. In his work, he’d dealt with plenty of detectives, and usually he had fun irritating them. They had a sense of importance third only to doctors and lawyers. They all took themselves so seriously. He couldn’t help poking holes in their inflated egos.

  Lydia proved more fun because she was beautiful when she got angry. Her eyes flashed and her cheeks flushed and … Simply fantastic.

  At his Jeep, he paused, mulling over asking her to dinner. He wanted to grab a bite, and the way she’d reacted at the press conference made him think perhaps she would
say yes.

  “And then what?” he said aloud to no one as he got in and started the engine. He saw no real future for them.

  How could he explain what would happen when they had their first fight? No, a working relationship was better for both of them. He turned on the radio and sang along to a rock song as he drove home.

  As fate would have it, he lived across the street from Lydia’s building. Well, not exactly fate. He’d moved into the furnished apartment once he found out she was the detective working the Bestial Butcher case.

  Since their first meeting, he felt compelled to protect Lydia. She had no real idea what she had gotten involved in. Although he had no doubt she could deal with society’s scum with dispatch, the Bestial Butcher was not society’s typical scum.

  Entering the apartment, he tossed his keys onto the coffee table. He walked to the refrigerator and opened a can of tomato juice. As the thick, tangy liquid flowed down his throat, his mind wandered.

  Prowling night streets looking for the Butcher had led him to tracks only the Butcher could leave. Lydia would follow up on the tip he’d passed her. She had to.

  He tossed the empty can in the recycle bin and plopped on the sofa. Although the apartment came furnished when he started leasing it, he wouldn’t have decorated it any other way. Heavy furniture boasted solid wood and upholstery stuffed to overflowing. In the case of a very comfortable blue recliner, white filler peaked through seams on one side whenever someone sat in it.

  Taupe walls gave the room a feeling of warmth. Neither the recliner nor the faded orange sofa matched the hunter green shag carpet or brick-colored curtains that covered a street–view picture window. Yet the place had a coziness about it. Aside from the perfect view into Lydia’s apartment, the ambience had influenced his reason to live there.

  His tastes had not always tended toward homey. He remembered a time when he preferred deco furniture and open space. Only in the past few years had his tastes changed to a cozier den-like atmosphere.

  He closed his eyes and stretched. In the morning, he would go to the station and see what information he could get out of them about the condition of the Butcher’s body... if they even found a body. He knew somehow that the Butcher hadn’t died. Not even in that fire. And if he lived, the Butcher had escaped unseen. Even with all the firefighters surrounding the house and onlookers watching from the street. Next time, he would need to get to the scene sooner if he wanted to catch him.