Blood Week

by J. D. Martin

  Half way through his third round of footage, Bronson came across a couple having sex in a car parked on the street. He sped through that section to avoid any jokes from the peanut gallery next to him. Near the end of that disc, something useful finally made an appearance. “There he is,” he said. “Thompson passed this camera at 11:17 that night. He couldn’t have been our killer.” Pinick pulled up beside him and confirmed his findings. “Looks like Saint will be requesting that immunity deal.”

  Early the following morning, while waiting for Bradley’s deal to come back from the judge, I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. Small groups of pedestrians walked along the sidewalk entranced by their own worlds; most had their noses in a mobile device. A couple passed conversing about their day while sounds of nearby traffic occasionally drowned them out. All of them scurried along on the way to their destinations in the constant hustle of downtown Kansas City.

  The wind carried sounds of heavy machinery, like dump trucks and a skid steer with a jackhammer, from the construction going on off Twelfth Street. No matter what time of year it was, there was constant construction happening. Eventually, I had stopped paying much attention to it. Detours from closed streets and heavy traffic from closed lanes was a byproduct of living in any major city, and it got worse the closer you got to the heart of the it.

  Returning inside, a few of us decided to finish off what was left of pizzas that Pinick and Bronson had ordered in for the overnight shift. The remaining boxes contained a selection of cheese or supreme. It’s funny how those were always that last two pies to be eaten. The thought of vegetables on a pizza made me queasy, so I settled for a slice of plain cheese when I saw Captain Hawthorne out of the corner of my eye. She jolted up from her desk chair like she’d just sat on a tack and slammed her phone onto the receiver.

  Storming into the bullpen with the ferocity of lion attacking a gazelle, she immediately gathered everyone’s attention. “Get that TV turned on,” she ordered. “Channel 4 news received a letter from our killer that they’re airing now.” I was out of the break room heading for the TV before she could finish her sentence. Maybe it was after working with her for so long or perhaps that you just learned to think in terms of chess—ten moves ahead—that I didn’t need to wait for her instructions to end. Pressing the power button on the side of the flat screen, it flashed to life just as the report was starting.

  “…from the man that police have been searching for. We received it by messenger a mere fifteen minutes ago and weren’t immediately sure if it was authentic. However, upon opening the envelope we found a Polaroid of the most recent body meant to verify that this is real. As such, we here at Channel 4 are bringing it to you first. Before airing this breaking news, our producers notified local police about the letter to assist in their investigation. I want to emphasize that these words are that of the Blood Week killer, and aren’t to be used to reflect the thoughts of this news station.”

  Those that condemn do not understand that I am the force holding back that which is infesting this city. Thou shall not kill is a motto all should hold near and dear in their lives, so this is not something I do lightly. Call it divinity, sanctity, or the works of insanity, there are consequences that we all must answer to.

  Stealing innocence will not be tolerated. Police do what the law allows, but those that skirt their capabilities will find me on their doorsteps. It is through secrecy that I clear the filth, and while some say that I will burn for my actions that won’t stop my blade from exacting vengeance for the weak.

  Eventually, judgment comes for us all and I will be the jury of your execution until my day comes. I am the purveyor of death for the corrupt. Qui tacet consentire videtur.

  “We spoke with a local university professor in the language department about that last line,” said the man reporting once he’d finished reading the letter. “I apologize for the pronunciation but we’ve been told that the final words are in Latin, which translates to ‘he who is silent is taken to agree.’ We can only assume at what message the killer is trying to convey, but the rest is quite clear. Criminals beware. We’ll have more on this story as it dev…”

  I hit the mute button as I turned to Stacey, “Are they getting us that letter to print it?”

  “Yes, the copy they read wasn’t the actual letter. They promised to put the original aside and use a copy for broadcast. I couldn’t keep them from reading it, but I was at least able to get them to agree to some protocol for evidence.” Hawthorne scanned the room until she found who she was looking for. “Simmons?” Her stern voice snapped him to attention as he stood up and awaited orders. “I have the station holding the package and letter for us. I need you to get down there and pick it up.”

  “On it,” he said, grabbing his can of cola and hurrying towards the elevator with his usual waddle. He pressed the button on the wall, but the doors had already started to open where thin woman in a charcoal suit stepped out. Her dark hair was pulled back tight and carried a sheen as it reflected the light around her from too much hairspray.

  She walked directly to Hawthorne’s office with a manila folder tucked under her left arm. Eyeing the captain in the bullpen, she proceeded up to her and held out the folder. “I have an immunity deal from Judge Steel for Bradley Thompson.” Joining up with Stacey by her office as she escorted the courier through the door, we signed for custody of the envelope and the woman left.

  I signaled for Delgado to join me in interrogation as I brought it over for the kid to sign. On the way, I pulled it out and scanned through it. The judge agreed to let Bradley walk on the two charges we had him for in exchange for the stolen duffel of cash, the location where he made his delivery that night, and a description of the man he passed in the hallway of Big King’s apartment building.

  When I opened the door, I found the boy sucking down a bottle of root beer while holding a final piece of crust from the two pizza slices we gave him. He’d been put down in holding overnight, but when word came that his deal was on its way, he was brought back up to spill his guts. I figured that he would be more amiable after signing the papers if he’d also been afforded a full stomach. From the look of fulfillment on his face, I assumed I was correct.

  “Your deal just came in,” I said. Pinick and Delgado followed me in and stood near the door as I sat across from Bradley.

  “About time,” he mumbled, shoving the pizza crust into his mouth. I slid the paper his direction and placed a pen near the top. Reading through the page he looked up to me, “No problem.” He grabbed the pen and signed it while telling me the money was under his bed at his Mom’s. He also provided the address of his final delivery for King, which I wrote on a legal pad before tearing off the sheet and handing it to Pinick to pass on to the narcotics squad.

  “Now, onto what we came here for.” Delgado pulled up a chair to set beside me as I continued. “You said you had a description of the suspect?”

  Thompson ran through what he saw of the man exiting King’s apartment. “He was roughly your size and build,” he said, gesturing towards me. “His jeans were faded and he had a dark blue hoodie.”

  “What did his face look like?”

  “I don’t know exactly. He had his hood pulled up so I couldn’t really see his face, but I did see a Guns N’ Roses symbol on the back of the back-pack he had. It was black and I think—”

  “Wait!” The voice startled all of us as Richard Bronson barreled in the door. His eyes were wide with excitement as he tried to catch his breath. He must have run from the adjoining room behind the mirror to interrupt us. “Are you sure this is the man you saw exiting the apartment?” he asked. When Thompson confirmed, Bronson turned to me. “Alex, you need come with me. I have something to show you.”

  Bronson led us back to the room with the traffic cam footage and started tossing DVD’s around until he found the one he wanted. Shoving it into the player tray, he rushed through the video, searching for what had him so excited. When he found it, he pressed
pause and spun around in his chair to face us with the widest grin I’d ever seen on the man. Delgado and I stepped around him to see what had him riled up, and the recognition was immediate when our eyes caught what was displayed on the screen. I now understood what had Bronson in such a rush.

  “Holy shit,” said Marcus. “We’ve got a picture of him!”

  Chapter 13

  The image captured by the street camera was exactly as Bradley Thompson described. Two blocks from King’s apartment, he was caught walking past a camera being used to study traffic flow in the area. However, the image of the GNR fan was a bit grainy since the recording device wasn’t an HD camera. Regardless, you could still make out a man wearing jeans, a plain dark colored hoodie, and carrying a black backpack with a red smudge on the back.

  “Looks like the guy wasn’t kind enough to show us his face,” said Delgado. “He still has that hood pulled up.”

  “Put a few copies of the suspect on a jump drive for me,” I said. “I’ll get the photos down to the lab to clean it up. Maybe they can enhance the details like that mark on the backpack.”

  “Will do,” said Bronson.

  “In the meantime, what are we going to do with Mr. Thompson?” asked Delgado.

  “Keep him in holding until we hear back from narcotics. I want to make sure the rest of his side of the bargain is being held up before we let him go. Once they’ve collected the money and busted the buyer, we’ll release him.”

  “Done,” interrupted Bronson. “Here’s the screen shots.” He handed me the portable hard drive that was smaller than my thumb. With the photos in hand, I left for the elevator. Once I got it down to one of the lab technicians, perhaps they could work some magic and give us something better to look at.

  When I passed by the interrogation room, the image of Bradley through the small window in the door gave me pause. During my tenure on the KCPD, I’d seen people do a lot of weird things when they were thought to be alone. But many forget that while you’re alone, it doesn’t mean someone can’t still see you. Some of the stories that had passed via the grapevine through the force were shocking. One guy had thought the alone time was the perfect reason to rub one out. A detective out in Overland Park had accidentally interrupted the show and had been ribbed by his mates as a peeping tom for weeks.

  The perp had been found with meat in hand, cranking away as if trying to finish before anybody came back. With his pants around his ankles and the back of his chair leaning against the wall, his hand flew up and down like he was trying to get the last of the ketchup out. With his eyes tightly squeezed and his grit-teeth moaning, he didn’t even realize he was no longer alone. Worse, he seemed more annoyed than embarrassed when the detective cleared his throat to announce his presence. His pants had to be forced back on and each hand cuffed to opposite ends of the table.

  Bradley Thompson was setting up to be the latest story to pass along. The kid had removed both his shoes and socks to sit barefoot at the long silver table to make it easier to bite his nails. And as someone might ask why the removal of footwear would be required, it wasn’t his fingernails that he chose to chew on. Thompson had his left heel resting on his knee while he was hunched over chewing on the big toenail.

  Since I had to get the photo to one of the lab techs, I let Bradley continue chewing on his tootsies and continued towards the elevator. Inside the car, I selected the floor for the lab and started my descent. Just as the doors opened on the basement floor, I bumped into Kathryn Morrison waiting to head upstairs. She was one of the many technicians from the lab, but she specialized in DNA analysis. In her hand was a folder the more than likely had information on an active investigation that she was taking up to one of the detectives.

  “Mr. Saint,” she said coyly. “What happened to our date last week?” She puffed out her bottom lip and shifted her weight onto her right leg like a pouting child. She couldn’t hold the look long though as she giggled slightly. Her eyes narrowed as she smiled, causing them to sparkle. The blood rushing to her reddening cheeks showed her shyness through the flirtation.

  Grinning back at her, “I’m so sorry, Kat. Something came up at the last minute, but I’m free for a few hours this evening.”

  She stepped in close to me to keep any passersby from hearing. Her shoulder-length locks were as bright as the sun and pulled back in a tight ponytail. And Lord knows I love a ponytail. “What I want may take all the time you have,” she whispered. Her eyes flicked for a second to my crotch before looking back up at me. Standing about a head shorter than me, the way she looked up at me was begging me to take her on the floor immediately.

  “Oh, I know all too well how long it takes to calm your kitten.” Kat and I had had many adventures betwixt the sheets that it was nearly a weekly ritual minus last week’s cancellation.

  “Well, I expect a night of sweat this time, Mr. Saint,” she said. I smelled the citrus of her perfume as she leaned even closer and pressed the elevator button behind me. She stared deeply into my eyes, “Mama needs to be satisfied,” and snapped her teeth together like a lioness showing her vicious side before stepping around me to wait for the elevator.

  “I’ll cook you dinner at my place tonight,” I said walking backwards down the hall. “How does six o’clock sound?”

  “As long as you take me to the Blue Room afterwards,” she called back to me without turning around.

  “Done.”

  As her elevator arrived, I turned down the bend in the hallway and listened to my heels clacking against the tile all the way to the double doors that led to a large room full of forensic investigators. Rows of computers and equipment allowed for anything we needed as long as there was someone on duty who knew how to use them. Some of the machines were so sophisticated that it took special training to even know how to power the damn thing on.

  In the back was the media center where I found a blue lab coat with its back to me. Hunched over a circuit board, he had a soldering iron in his hand that popped and sizzled as he worked. I cleared my throat to get his attention and the sudden noise in a previously empty room startled him. His head shot up, banging against a shelf above him.

  “Oh shit,” I said as I reached out to him. “Are you ok?”

  Turning around, he vigorously rubbed the back of his head as he looked up at me. The friction caused his red hair to stand on end, leaving an awkward bulge at the back. “Morning, Saint,” said Eric Masters; resident expert of all things media and computer related. Eric was my go-to guy whenever I needed something like an image recalibration done quickly.

  “I’m ok,” he said. “I just didn’t know you were standing there.” After another quick rub of his head, he did his best to flatten the hair back down and straightened his lab coat. “What can I do for you?”

  “We found a few images of a man believed to be connected to Blood Week on some cameras near Big King’s apartment.” I handed him the flash drive, “I wanted to know if you could clean them up or enhance them to give us something better to look at.”

  “Let’s take a looksee,” Eric said, sliding his chair over to a nearby computer and slipping the drive into one of the many ports. When the folders popped up on the screen, he clicked through the files to open the image or the man with the backpack. Eric took a moment to study his new project to know what he had to work with. Like I’d seen many times, his lips pursed into a slight frown as part of his concentration face. This always emphasized the freckles on his face for some reason. When he was finished, he pushed his black, plastic-framed glasses back up the ridge of his nose. This was the indication that he had finished his once over and was ready to report.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem, but I’m not sure how clean it will be from such a low-resolution camera.” Standing up, he grabbed the drive to move to another computer that had specialized software for the task. He towered over me as he passed by and sat at another terminal. “Give me about an hour and I’ll have something for you.”

  “Thanks, Eric. Also,
if you could get a close up on the red mark on the side of his backpack, it would be helpful.”

  “Will do. I’ll call you when I’m finished.”

  Thanking Eric again for his help, I left the media center to go back upstairs. On the way to the elevator, I spotted Detective Simmons holding an envelope and a sheet of paper inside an evidence bag as he spoke with another forensics technician. It was the note from the vigilante that had been read over the news. He’d returned with the original copy and was discussing having it processed with the tech.

  Noticing me pass by, Simmons flashed the bag to me like it was first prize at the science fair. He was very good at his job, but he could be a bit quirky in his old age. Although he wasn’t far from retirement, sometimes his actions were much more childlike than his aged appearance would give him credit for. Pushing sixty, Simmons loved the job but I knew he was secretly ready for retirement. I returned a thumbs-up and continued out the double doors to hail an elevator.

  Back on homicide’s floor, my phone started playing a song that would make any movie nerd want to take that DeLorean back in time. Answering, I found Travis Gibbons who ran the narcotics strike team on the other end. This was the kind of guy who was all business at work, but came across as the surfer bro that dabbled in drugs himself when not in uniform. He wanted to fill me in on what happened with the raid on the address provided by Bradley Thompson, who still sat in the interrogation room.

  “For starters,” he said, “the money was right where the boy said it was. His mother was hesitant to let us in until she could read through the warrant, but we recovered the bag without incident. As for the bust on the drop-off location, that’s another story. They were much more unwilling to have us enter than Ms. Thompson.” Immediately, I envisioned an assault on the building and was worried that one of ours may have been injured.